✑ welcome all dearies, to my little corner of ink and shadows.
for little background, writing has always been my space to express my thoughts. it’s where thoughts unravel and emotions take shape with teeth. i appear when i can. most of my hours belong to lectures, research, and the beautiful chaotic energy of being a university student.
when i am here, expect characters written in atmosphere, obsession, psychoanalyzing, realism, dark themes and psychological tension.
if it feels like it’s watching you back, it belongs.
from here on out, this space centers on Creepypasta / Marble Hornets. that is the spine of this blog. other times i’ll write in VNs spaces—TFC, Killer Chat, & maybe adventure to others, you may still see other remnants drift through occasionally.
i am no longer writing for TKATB, stop asking please.
✑ ꩜ 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ . 𝒾𝓃𝒻𝑜
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ─ another quick intro, i’m yaya, a writer/researcher and a university student studying psychology/pre-med track, currently in my FOURTH year. i’ve loved writing since i was little and never really stopped.
if you see my work posted anywhere else, it isn’t me.
i write ONLY on tumblr and steer clear of ao3, curses be damned. adding on, this space is 18+. all of it. SFW only means “safe to view in public,” not “made for minors.” NSFW is explicit. either way, this blog is built for mature adults audiences.
if you are a minor, do not interact, send me inky asks/whisper and, absolutely do not message me. i am not responsible for you choosing to ignore warnings to read my work because you believe you’re mature enough to handle it.
also, if you are easily offended by dark themes, heavy psychology, or morally messy content, this will not be comfortable for you.
curate your space accordingly. my page, my rules.
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ . 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒
── .꩜ first things first, worried about my writing or posting schedule? lovely of you. tragic, though, because there isn’t one. i used to run on a schedule and it burned me out so badly it practically turned to ash in my hands. lesson learned.
so here are the rules: do not message me asking when I’m posting. i write when I can. I post when it’s ready. and don’t spam me. I’m open to questions about my work, but keep it respectful.
no invasive or rude personal asks.
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝓈 𝒷𝑜𝓍
𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎 𝒶𝓈𝓀𝓈: SEMI-OPEN (closed for TFC)
these are ONLY for prompts, ideas, for drabbles or headcanons, writing advice, or psychology related discussions. if it connects to fiction, craft, or character minds, it belongs there.
don’t ask me personal/insensitive questions.
like, if you ever have to carefully think about your question AND it sounds disrespectful, refrain so, if you still do, i WILL delete it.
please don’t ask me to psychoanalyze you.
i ONLY analyze/write fictional characters. real people deserve real professionals. and i'm not professional yet, this is all for studying purposes. keep it creative. keep it respectful. think of something interesting.
also, a reminder: i do not write everything I’m sent. i choose prompts that feel distinct, detailed, and layered enough for me to actually build with. Simple asks may can work, but it depends on whether they genuinely spark my interest.
if it doesn’t move me, I won’t force it.
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝓀𝑜-𝒻𝒾
𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈: CLOSED
for clarity, my one shots are reserved for my own ideas.
If you’re looking for a standard commissioned/personalized one shot, Ko-fi requests are closed for now. school, time, and peace of mind come first. when pressure stacks too high, writing turns from joy into obligation, and I won’t let that happen.
agian, i will still post one shots, but they’ll be stories born entirely from my own concepts.
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈
── .꩜ proceed with caution, dearies. as my writing tends to wander deep into the dark—psychological trauma, morally gray choices, and unsettling territory—because i learn in the world of psych and neuroscience every day. that academic brain bleeds into my writing, twisting it into something uncanny and heavy.
i am fully comfortable exploring explicit, graphic, and morally questionable content; you are responsible for your OWN exposure if you ignore the warnings and choose to stay.
i’m fully comfortable with graphic or morally questionable content; however, i am not responsible how you FEEL or THINK, if you ignore the WARNINGS above and choose to stay.
things i don’t write:
incest or stepcest, pro-shipping, pedophilia, mommy/daddy kinks, pregnancy (nothing baby related), a/b/o, zoophilia, or anything related to the above. no exceptions.
things i do write:
character x reader (or OC for paid requests), every dark content, sfw/nswf themes, including cannibalism, murder, dubcon, yandere dynamics, realism, psychological/neurological and morally gray behavior.
yes, i write fluff, smut, angst, and nearly EVERY tag under the sun—but i’ll admit it: smut is my favorite. it’s hilarious to write, and my brain refuses to apologize.
i write reader-insert only (fem, afab, or gn). i don’t write from a male pov or genitalia, so i stick with any other focused perspectives instead.
your thoughts and feedback are ALWAYS welcome, however again, hate or irrelevant criticism will be tossed straight into the void—other words, deleted. this is a safe space for all minds and bodies—treat others the way you wish to be treated.
thank you again, truly, for all your support .ᐟ
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ. 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈
─ .꩜ #yayamain: all my inkquills and enchanted entryways.
─ .꩜ #yayainkyheadcanons/#yayainkydrabbles: all my headcanons stuff.
─ .꩜ #yayathoughts/#yayainterests: a jumble of musings, murmurs, and mischievous blabbles.
─ .꩜ #yayaupdate: tidings, alerts, and morsels you ought to know.
♤ — iyayadonna, all rights reserved. ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: So yeah… You've been gone for months.
Not like forever. Just... away for a bit. You told them you needed space. Adult stuff. Life Stuff. Responsibilities that didn't involve a bunch of monsters. they respected it. well, tried to. pierrot left like seventeen tearful voicemails. But weeks turned into months. Texts stopped. Visits stopped. and somewhere along the way, you stopped explaining and just... vanished.
They've had enough and they will not leave until you are given the attention you deserve.
✑ 𝓌𝒸: 5.8k
✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot/s · tfc x gn! reader · hurt/comfort · fluff and angst · emotional hurt/comfort · burnout · depression · established relationship · post-avoidance.
Life has been... life-ing.
If that's even a word. (it's not.) Lately, these days, everything feels chaotic and unpredictable and just... too much.
You've been busy, like legitimately busy. Just dealing with things that required you to stay away from the circus for a while. you can't just live there like some monster who doesn't have real-world responsibilities.
You have a life. Or, you had one.
You switched from full-time to part-time at the coffee shop so you could focus on school. Exams got thrown at your face repeatedly—irritating doesn't even begin to cover it. but now the exams are done. everything should be over.
You should be resting. Recovering from your busy lifestyle.
At least maybe even feeling good.
But every morning, you wake up and you just... don't move.
You’re aware of it, vaguely. The way your body feels heavy, like someone filled your bones with wet sand while you were sleeping. the way your phone is always in your hand before you've even decided to pick it up. the way hours pass and you've done nothing but scroll and blink and exist.
Your boss has noticed. Fuck.
“You okay?" He asked last week, eyes scanning your face like they were looking for something you'd lost. “You seem... rather tired."
“Just busy," you said, and you almost believed it.
they asked again yesterday. “Seriously, are you sleeping? eating? you look—" He stopped himself, however, you heard the word they didn't say.
Empty. Stuck. Motionless. I’m fine," Which you always say.
Same words. Same tone. Same lie.
You know you're not fine. You know that. But acknowledging it feels like opening a door you're not ready to walk through. So you ignore it. You ignore the way your energy drains faster than it used to. You ignore the way getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. You ignore your boss's concerned glances and the way they leave an extra pastries by your bag every shift now—just in case you haven't eaten.
You ignore it because ignoring is easier.
Because if you didn't ignore it, you'd have to admit that something is wrong. And admitting that means dealing with it. And dealing with it means... what?
Therapy? Medication? Talking to someone? Changing?
You don't have the energy for any of that.
Causing your boss eventually stopped asking. Instead, he just... gave you time off. a week, then two, then three. "take as long as you need," he said, with that same worried look you kept pretending not to see.
He figured, like maybe hoped that staying home would help. that rest would pull you out of whatever hole you'd fallen into.
So you stay home. You live in and out of your bed. some days you're awake enough to sit on the couch. most days you're not.
Every now and then, someone comes to check on you. A friend. a family member. someone who cares enough to show up unannounced.
You don't have the energy to be annoyed—again you don't have the energy for much of anything—but you also don't want them to worry. So you clean. Just enough to make your space look lived-in instead of caved-in. You shower. You put on clean clothes.
You play pretend.
“I’m good,” you say, same as always. “Just tired. exams took a lot out of me."
They nod. they leave. and the second the door closes, you're back in bed, phone in hand.
All you want is to be alone. all you want is to scroll. to disappear into the glow of the screen where nothing matters and no one expects anything from you.
Your handheld game helps, sometimes. one of your friends bought it for you as a congratulations gift—"you finished your exams! you earned this!"—a wildly popular life simulation series where you populate a bustling, personalized island with mii avatars of yourself, family, friends, or fictional characters.
You act as an god like caretaker, watching these little digital people interact, fall in love, fight, perform concerts, navigate bizarre daily dramas.
It was supposed to be fun, relaxing, a reward for once.
Now it just feels like another task. another thing you should be doing. Another reason to feel guilty when you don't.
You even listen to music, too. Your favorite artist. The same songs on repeat, over and over, hoping to feel something. A spark of the person you used to be before everything got so heavy.
But at last, nothing comes.
Just the same boring numbness. Same hollow ache. You're lying there, thumb hovering over your phone screen, when you hear it.
A knock. Soft, but definitely there. Weird thing is—it's not coming from your front door. It's coming from your balcony window.
"What the hell…?" You freeze. Your heart does this weird thing—not panic exactly, but something like recognition. Because normal people don't knock on balcony windows. Normal people can't even reach a third-floor balcony.
You turn your head slow.
And there's a silhouette on the other side of the glass.
Tall. Familiar. Just... waiting for you to open up.
✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉
“…Pierrot?"
Your eyes watch the figure on the balcony moves, seeing a shift of weight and tilt of the head. Enough for you to recognize that shape anywhere—just a too-tall frame, slump of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like he's always bracing for bad news.
You set your phone down then swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your body feels heavy, each step toward the balcony window an effort, close like wading through water.
The lock sticks for a few secoud, you haven't opened this door in weeks, no truly months. But it finally gives, and the late afternoon air hits your face, cool and sharp, and there he is.
Just standing on your third-floor balcony like it's the most natural thing in the world. His white masked face is even paler than usual under the dim city lights, and his starry eyes—those beautiful, swirling eyes—are wide and wet and devastated.
“My dear," he breathes.
And then he's moving, crossing the small space between you in one long stride, and his hands are cupping your face before you can say anything, his cool fingers trembling against your cheeks.
“We thought you were dead," he whispers. his voice cracks on the last word. “We… )-I thought—when you stopped answering, when the days turned to weeks, we thought something had happened to you. we thought you'd left me forever."
HIs eyes search your face, and you watch the worry settle into his features like a physical weight. Those now starry pupils flicker as they take in everything—such as the dark bruises under your eyes, the unnatural lightness of your skin, the way your cheeks look slightly hollowed out like you haven't been eating enough.
His gaze drops to your hoodie (the same one from three days ago, you can't remember the last time you changed), then to the room behind you, displaying a dim, messy, stuck look, then back to your face.
“And you were just..." his voice cracks. tears spill over, tracking silver lines down his powdered cheeks. “You were just… scrolling?"
You open your mouth. the excuse is already there, the same one you've been giving everyone: i'm fine, just tired, exams took a lot out of me, i just need rest—
Pierrot shakes his head before you can even say it. “No," he whispers. “Don't. Please don't lie to me. i can see you, my dear. You're not fine."
You close your mouth.
He steps closer, his cool large hands finding yours again, holding them like they're something precious. “You look..." he trails off, searching for words. “Dim. like someone turned down your light. like you're fading."His lower lip trembles just a bit
“Please. Tell me what's wrong. I don't understand the things you humans go through, but I want to. I need to. because seeing you like this—" his voice drops to barely a whisper. "it's breaking me."
You don't have an answer.
You don't have words for what's been happening inside your head. Burnout? Depression? Exhaustion? All you know is that you've been stuck and numb and tired in a way that sleep can't fix.
Pierrot doesn't wait for you to figure it out.
He pulls you into his chest again, but this time he doesn't let go. his arms wrap around you tight—not painfully, but firmly, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip.
His face presses into your hair, and you feel him breathing you in, shaky and desperate. “I’ve got you," he murmurs against your head. “I don't know what's happening, but i've got you. you don't have to explain. you don't have to do anything. Just... let me hold you."
You were still there for a long moment, limp in his arms, letting him support your weight. and slowly—so slowly—you feel something unfreeze in your chest.
He starts moving you toward the bed. not pushing, not dragging, just... guiding. His long body curls around yours as he pulls you onto the mattress, arranging the pillows behind your head, tugging the blanket up over both of you.
“Pierrot, what are you—"
“Shh." he tucks you against his side, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other coming up to stroke your hair. “We're going to stay here. in this bed. and you're going to rest, and I’m going to hold you, mayebe later I can cook for you and eventually—" he presses a kiss to your forehead.
“Eventually, you're going to feel better."
“You don't know that."
“I believe it," he says softly. "and sometimes that's enough."
He doesn't understand burnout. Doesn't know the word for it, doesn't have a framework for the way modern life drains the life out of people. But he understands sadness. He understands exhaustion. He understands what it feels like to be so tired that moving your body feels impossible.
So he holds you. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back. his chest rises and falls against yours. And every few minutes, he whispers something soft and reassuring into your hair.
“You're safe."
“I’m here."
“You don't have to be anything right now."
His starry eyes never leave your face, even as the minutes stretch into an hour. he watches you like you're the most precious thing in the world—like he's memorizing every detail, every breath, every small sign that you're still here.
“Pierrot?"
“Yes, my dear?"
“…Thank you. For coming."
Your felt his arms tighten around you. “Always," he whispers. “Always, always, always." And for the first time in weeks, you close your eyes and let yourself be held.
✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃
“What the fuc… Harlequin?”
You whisper his name before you even open the door, and Harlequin's silhouette goes still. “…What?"
“Uh, just... come in."
You slide the door open, and he steps inside like he owns the place—because of course he does, it’s him. You notice his neon green eyes sweep across your apartment, taking in the dim lighting, the messy blankets, the general stagnation of it all. But instead of concern, his face splits into that familiar, jagged grin.
“Well, well, well," he purrs, dropping onto your couch like a cat claiming a sunbeam. “The human seems alive or, well… enough. Same difference."
You sit back down on your bed, phone already finding its way back into your hand.
“So,” he drawls, kicking his feet up on your coffee table. "you gonna explain why you've been ignoring me? or are we just pretending the last few months didn't happen?"
“I wasn't ignoring you—"
“Oh, really?" he pulls out his own phone, scrolling with one claw. “Because i've sent you... let's see... forty-seven reels. FORTY-SEVEN. and you haven't reacted to a SINGLE one."
You open your mouth. Then close it.
The truth is, you've watched every single one.
You couldn't not watch them—harlequin has a way of knowing when you've seen his messages. but the things he sends you are... cursed. Like, genuinely deranged. Last week he sent you a video of a raccoon riding a roomba while wearing a tiny cowboy hat, set to dramatic classical music. The week before that, it was a compilation of geese committing what could only be described as war crimes.
You weren't sure if you were depressed or just terrified of birds now.
“I watched them," you mumble.
“Oh yeah? Then why didn't you react?"
“Because I don't know how to react to a goose stealing someone's sandwich."
Harlequin snorts. “That's fair. That one was art."
You fall into something almost comfortable—him sprawled on your couch, you curled on your bed, both of you on your phones. This is normal for you two. parallel play, he calls it. existing in the same space without being annoying about it.
Except.
Except you stop responding to his commentary. Your thumb keeps scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. reels blur together. cats, memes, a video essay about something you don't care about. Harlequin says something—a joke, maybe, or a sex joke—and you hum in response, not really hearing him.
“Hello? Earth to the human who's been ignoring me for months?"
You don't look up.
“Okay, that's—" he cuts himself off then you hear him stand feel the bed shift just a bit as he moves. Suddenly his hand is on your phone, tugging it gently but firmly out of your grip. “Hey—"
“No."
You look up. Harlequin is standing over you, your phone in one hand, his neon eyes fixed on your face. and for the first time since he arrived, he really looks at you.
The grin fades while his head tilts—catlike, curious, assessing. his gaze traces the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump, the hollow emptiness in your expression that you've been hiding from mirrors.
“You look..." he pauses, searching for words. “Bad. like, really bad. When's the last time you slept?"
“I sleep."
“That's not what I asked, little thing.” Still, you don't answer.
One of Harlequin's tendrills flicks behind him—a nervous habit he'd never admit to. He looks at your phone, then back at you, then at your phone again. something shifts in his expression.
Something almost like... guilt?
“Was it the reels?" he asks, quieter than usual. “Did I… was I the reason you—"
“No.” and for once, you're being honest. “It's not you. I’ts… everything. I’ve just been stuck." He stares at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he shoves your phone into his pocket. Sits down on the bed beside you. Like Close, very close than he normally would.
“Okay," he says.
“…Okay?"
“Okay, you're stuck. Okay, you've been ignoring me. Okay, you look like a sad, wilted lettuce." he bumps his shoulder against yours. “I’m still here, aren't I? I’m not going anywhere."
You lean into him without meaning to. One of his tendrills curls around you. “You're gonna be fine," he mutters, almost to himself. “You're annoyingly resilient. it's one of your few good qualities."
“I have other good qualities."
“Name three."
“…I’m not doing this right now." He laughs—soft, real, nothing bitter about it. And for a little while, neither of you moves.
✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇
“The hell, Jester…?”
You whisper his name through the glass, and for a long moment, nothing happens.
He doesn't move, speak, just stands there, massive and still, like a statue someone forgot to finish. you almost think you imagined it—the knock, the shape, the whole thing—when his voice finally cuts through the night.
“You took longer than expected to open."
it's not a complaint. not really. just an observation, delivered in that low, resonant tone that makes your bones feel weird. You slide the door open, and Jester steps inside.
He doesn't say anything at first. just stands there in the middle of your tiny apartment, taking it in. The messy bed. the scattered snack wrappers. The phone in your hand, screen still glowing.
His purple eyes, just sharp, steady, ancient eyes—sweep across everything in your place. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate. “So this is what modern humans consider meaningful existence. Staring at box of light. Ignoring the living world.” He crosses his arms, and you feel the full weight of his judgment pressing down on you.
You should probably say something. Defend yourself at least. Explain your poor behavior. But your throat feels tight, and his presence is a lot, and all you can manage is a weak, "...hi."
One of his eyebrows lifts. just slightly. just enough. “Hi," he repeats, like the word is foreign. like he's testing it on his tongue. “You disappear for months. you stop responding to all forms of communication. You let me believe—" he pauses, something flickering across his face too fast to read. “And all you have to say is hi?"
You shift your weight, just a bit. “I didn't know what else to say."
"the truth is usually a good starting point."
You don't have the truth. Not one you can put into words, anyway. So you just stand there, phone still in your hand, and let him look at you.
He does, like for a long time.
And then he unexpectedly moves. Well not toward you. Toward your kitchen funny enough. You watch, baffled, as the jester—massive, purple, terrifying jester opens your cabinets. Peers inside. Closes them. opens your fridge. makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum.
“You have no food," he states.
"i have... some food."
“You have instant noodles and expired yogurt." he turns to face you, arms still crossed. “This is not food. This is desperation or a cry for help.”
Vefore you can respond, he's pulling out his phone—a sleek, expensive-looking thing that seems too small for his hands—and typing something with practiced efficiency.
“What are you doing?"
“Ordering groceries."
“You… you can't just—"
“I can," he says, not looking up. “I am. Watch Me.”
And you do. you watch the most intimidating monster you've ever met stand in your messy kitchen and order you groceries like it's the most natural thing in the world.
When he's done, he pockets his phone and turns to you, expression unreadable. “You're going to eat," he says. "real food. more than once a day. i will ensure this."
“You don't have to—"
“I am aware that I don't have to. I am choosing to." his purple eyes meet yours. “There is a difference."
You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. He looks at your bed, all of the the rumpled blankets, the pillow you've been hugging for warmth and then back at you.
“When's the last time you slept? Truly slept? not the restless, nightmare-ridden version you've been enduring."
You blink, "how do you know about—"
“I’ve notice things." he says it simply. like it's obvious. "you have dark circles beneath your eyes. your posture has collapsed. your energy is... dim than before.” a pause. "you are not well."
It's not a question. “I’m just tired," you try.
“You are exhausted, burned out. there is a difference." he moves toward you—slowly, carefully, like you're a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. “And you are not going to fix it by staring at that device."
He gestures at your phone, still clutched in your hand.
"Give it to me."
“What? no—"
“Give me the phone, little human."
There's something in his voice—not a command, exactly. more like... an invitation. like he's offering to carry something too heavy for you. And maybe it's the exhaustion. maybe it's the numbness. maybe it's just that he's him.
But you hand it over.
He takes it gently, like surprisingly gently and sets it on your dresser, face down. “There," he says. “Now you have no choice but to exist in the present moment."
“That’s… terrifying."
“Good. Fear is motivating."
He sits on the edge of your bed, which it creaks under his weight and pats the space beside him. “Come. sit. tell me what has happened to you. or don't. Either way, you are not going to be alone in this room tonight."
You hesitate then you sit.
His presence is huge and warm and solid, and somehow, despite everything, you… feel something loosen in your chest.
“To be honest… I don't know what's wrong with me," you admit quietly.
“Nothing is wrong with you," he says, and his voice is softer now. almost gentle. “You are a human experiencing human things. Burnout. Exhaustion. The crushing weight of existence." he glances at you. “It happens. it passes. and in the meantime..." he shifts, draping an arm across your shoulders—heavy, grounding. “You’ll have to deal with me.”
“I disappeared for months."
“And I found you." he says it like it's obvious. like there was never any other option. “I will always find you."
You lean into him without meaning to. Again, surprisingly, he lets you. And for the first time in weeks, you don't feel quite so alone.
✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇
“Wha.. Ticket Taker…?”
You whisper his name, and the silhouette on your balcony straightens. instantly. like he's been waiting for permission to exist.
You slide the door open, and Ticket Taker steps inside. His eye don't wander. they scan. every corner, every surface, every crumpled blanket and discarded wrapper. his expression is unreadable—that perfect, black-and-white symmetrical mask he wears like armor.
But you see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands clasp just a little tighter behind his back. “You didn't show up," he says. No greeting, nor small talk. Just facts.
“I know—"
“To work. To the circus. TO anything." His voice is clipped, controlled, but there's something underneath it. Something that might be hurt, or anger or both. “You failed to appear. Repeatedly. Without notice. Without explanation."
You open your mouth. close it.
he pulls out a small notebook—the one he always carries, the one filled with your schedule, your preferences, your existence filed away in neat, precise handwriting. he flips through it, not looking at you.
“Your screen time has increased by approximately 400% since your departure," he states, adding on, “sleep deprivation is evident. your circadian rhythm appears to have collapsed entirely." his eyes flick to your fridge—you forgot to close it earlier. "nutritional intake is minimal. inadequate. frankly, embarrassing."
He closes the notebook with a snap.
“This is unsustainable. Even for an human, I will be implementing restrictions immediately."
"Restrictions?"
“ON your device usage. on your sleep schedule. on your diet." he finally looks at you, and his gaze is sharp. disappointed. "you have disappointed me."
the words hit harder than you expect.
“I didn't—"
“You didn't show up." his voice cracks, just slightly. just enough. "you didn't show up, and you didn't tell me why. I had to infer. I had to calculate. do you know how many variables I had to account for because you wouldn't simply communicate?"
You don't answer.
He paces—short, sharp movements, like a caged animal. “I have been maintaining everything, hoping and preparing for your return, assuming there would be a return." he stops, faces you. “And then i find you here. In this state. Living like..." he gestures at the room, at you, at everything. “Like this."
“Like what exactly?"
“Like someone who has given up."
The words hang in the air between the both of you.
And something in his expression just changes, a little softens, just a fraction. He looks at you, see him notice the dark circles, the hollow cheeks, the way your shoulders slump like you're carrying something too heavy.
He exhales as a hand through his hair already slick black hair—which is a rare tell, man’s was worried about you.
“…I’m pushing too hard," he says quietly, not a question more like observation.
You don't confirm or deny. You just stand there.
He sits on the edge of your bed—perched, really, like he's afraid of wrinkling his suit. his hands rest on his knees. he looks almost... uncertain. “Let's start smaller," he says. “Carefully. one thing at a time."
He pats the space beside him. “Sit.” which you do.
He doesn't touch you—he never initiates touch, not really—but he's close. closer than usual. his presence is solid, steady, there.
“Tell me," he says. “How do you feel?" It's such a simple question. and you don't have an answer. not one that fits into words.
“I don't know," you admit.
He nods, like that's acceptable. like he was expecting it. "then tell me what you do know."
You think about it. "i'm tired."
“Obviously."
“Like... bone tired. Mentally, the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix."
He's quiet for a moment. then: “Continue."
“I haven't been eating. or... I have, but not enough. not the right things." you glance at him. “You noticed."
“I notice everything." his voice is softer now. less sharp. “It's what I do."
“Yeah."
Silence but like it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that happens when someone is actually listening. “I miss the circus," you hear yourself say. “I miss... everyone. I just didn't know how to come back."
He turns to look at you. Now those cool, calculating eyes—but there's warmth there, hidden underneath.
“You're here now," he says. "that's a start."
He pulls out his notebook again—but this time, when he opens it, he doesn't start calculating. he just... holds it. like he's waiting.
“I’m going to help you," he says. “Whether you want me to or not. i'm going to make a schedule. I’m going to ensure you eat. i'm going to monitor your sleep. and eventually—" he meets your eyes. “Eventually, you're going to feel like yourself again."
“You can't know that."
“I can." he says it simply. “I’ve calculated the variables. the probability of recovery is high. provided you cooperate."
You almost smile. Almost. "...and if i don't cooperate?"
His lips twitch—the closest he ever gets to a smile. "Then i will be very persistent. you know this about me."
You do.
He stands, straightens his cuffs and looks down at you with something that might be fondness, if you squint. “We'll start tomorrow," he says. "Today, you rest. I’ll stay." He sits back down.
Doesn't touch you but his shoulder is close enough that you could lean on it, if you wanted.
✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇
“Is that, Doctor??”
You whisper-yelled his name through the glass with confusion, not expecting an answer.
You're about to call out again when you remember—oh. Right. This is Doctor. He doesn't do spontaneous visits. He doesn't leave the circus unless it's Halloween or the entire month of October when he apparently haunts the mortal realm like a goth Santa Claus.
Any other time? Good luck. He's in his greenhouse.
Talking to his ferns. Listening to heavy metal. Dissecting things that probably shouldn't be dissected.
So the figure on your balcony? On a random Friday?
You're either dreaming or he's lost.
But then he ducks because your balcony door is not small, but this man is very much tall. Like, Pirrot tall. Maybe taller. His horns scrape the top of the frame and he has to bend his neck at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable, and you realize with a jolt that you completely forgot how big he is.
Doctor is not a man who looms. He's a man who exists in the background, in the shadows, in the spaces between things. But up close? In your tiny apartment? He takes up soo much space.
“Well,” he says, his voice that low, pleasant hum that somehow makes your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way. "You look awful.”
"...Hi?"
"Hm." He sets down a medical bag you didn't notice he was carrying and starts circling you. Like a shark. Like you're a specimen in a petri dish. "Pupils are dilated. Skin is pale. Posture is collapsed. When's the last time you saw the sun?”
"I don't know. Two week ago?"
“Disgraceful."
He pulls out a small penlight and shines it directly into your eyes without warning. You flinch as you heard him clicks his tongue behind his mask, "Follow the light. Don't blink. Try not to be dramtic about it, sweetie”
"I'm not being dramatic—"
"You're flinching. That's dramatic."
He makes a note on a pad that has also materialized from nowhere. His handwriting is surprisingly neat. Almost pretty. There are little botanical doodles in the margins.
"Your eyes are strained," he announces. "You've been staring at that—" he gestures at your phone, still glowing on the bed “—Rectangle for hours. In the dark. Without proper lightting.”
"I have a lamp—"
“A lamp is not sufficient for retinal health. You need ambient light. Natural light. Just light that isn't blue and screen-sourced." He pulls out a small handheld scanner—you don't even want to know where he got it—and runs it over your face. It beeps. He frowns.
"Your melatonin production is essentially non-existence. Your dopamine receptors are fried. Your circadian rhythm is destroyed." He looks up at you, cyan eyes sharp. "You've turned your brain into much.”
"Wow. Thanks…”
"You're welcome." He pockets the scanner and tilts his head, studying you the way he studies anything else.
"Here's the thing, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. He doesn't ask permission. He just... occupies space. "I don't do interventions. I don't do heartfelt speeches. I don't do whatever Pierrot does—the crying, the clinging, the I thought you were dead theatrics." He waves a hand vaguely, like he's shooing away a fly. "Exhausting. All of it."
"You came all the way here though."
"I did." He says it simply. Like it's obvious. Like of course he did. "Because you're interesting, and interesting specimens don't just get to... wither. That's wasteful."
He pulls a small glass vial from his bag—something pale blue and faintly glowing. "This is a tincture. Herbal. I made it myself. It won't fix you, nothing fixes anything, not really but it'll help your body remember how to sleep. Real sleep. The kind where your brain actually resets."
He presses it into your palm. His fingers are cool, much larger than your own. "Drink it before bed. Not with your phone in your hand. Not with the screen glowing in your face. Just... close your eyes and exist in the dark for a while."
"This isn't going to turn me into a frog, is it?"
"Don't be ridiculous." A pause. "Frogs require a much higher dosage."
You stare at him. He stares back, completely deadpan.
"...That was a joke."
"Ah. Well. I can see that."
"Was it funny?"
You didn't have the heart to answer. Just looked away.
He followed your gaze, glancing around your apartment agaia—the rumpled blankets, the scattered wrappers, the general stagnation of it all. His mask made his expression hard to read, but something in his voice softened. Just slightly. Just enough.
"You've been existing, not living," he said quietly. "There's a difference. I know you know that."
Again, you didn't answer.
He didn't push. Instead, he moved toward you, not looming this time, just... present. Close enough that you could smell the dried lavender and chamomile clinging to his coat.
"You're not a failed experiment," he said, tilting his head. "You're not a specimen that's been left on a shelf to collect dust. You're just... unwatered. Like my ferns when I forget to open the greenhouse blinds."
"...Are you comparing me to a plant?"
"I'm saying plants don't choose to wilt. They just don't have what they need." His cyan eyes held yours. "You haven't had what you need either. That's not a moral failure. It's just... a missing variable."
You blinked. "That's... surprisingly gentle. For you."
"I have my moments." He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, pale blue, faintly glowing, and pressed it into your palm. His fingers were cool, dry, steady. "This will help. Not because I'm kind, but because I don't like watching interesting things wither. It's inefficient."
"You could just say you care."
"I could." He didn't. But he also didn't move away.
The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, just... full. Like something had been waiting to be said, and neither of you knew how to say it.
"I don't sleep much," he said finally, quieter than before. "I listen to music. I check on my plants. I... could sit with you. If you wanted."
"...You?"
"Surprised?"
"A little."
He almost smiled. Almost. "So am I."
He didn't leave immediately. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, his presence solid and steady.
"You should drink that before bed," he said, nodding at the vial in your hand. "Preferably in the dark. Preferably without your phone. And preferably..." he paused, something unreadable wavering across his masked face. "Preferably not alone."
"...Is that an instruction or an invitation?"
"Yes."
You huffed something that might have been a laugh. It felt strange in your chest.
He turned toward the balcony, his silhouette massive against the dim light. His horns scraped the top of the doorframe again, and he ducked with that same awkward grace, pausing at the threshold.
"If you need anything," he said, not looking back, "I'm in the greenhouse. Or the tent. Or... somewhere. You know how to find me."
And then he was gone, leaving behind a faint scent of dried herbs, cool earth, and something that might have been chamomile.
You looked down at the vial in your hand. And for the first time in weeks, you thought maybe you weren't as alone as you felt.
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
How far do you think pierrot’s love extends when it comes to making them happy or keeping them healthy?
Like, say MC had a binge eating disorder. Since pierrot loves to bake, especially for MC, and MC takes advantage of that, how would Pierrot react?
Like sweets once in a while are perfectly find, but when MC has an ED and eats Pierrot’s baking/cooking until the point where it gets super unhealthy, would he make MC stop? Or would his desire to make MC happy overpower any health concerns
Sorry if this is a bit uncomfortable to talk about, i was just curious on your opinion ◡̈
❝You are asking… about a very dangerous-dangerous trap, pretty plaything.❞
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: angst/fluff, sweetly intimate ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
hello there dearest ask! it's me! well poppet. or inkyette, if you still remember that name. lots of changes, lots of stitching myself back together, but i'm here now. taking over for a bit as our lovely writer slowly gets back into writing.
she's been working hard, and finally in a good place mentally—which means she's got the energy to write again. lucky you.
so let's talk about pierrot.
now starting, that's a good question. a really good one. because on the surface, it seems simple, right? pierrot loves baking. mc loves eating his baking. everyone's happy.
but you and i both know that's not how eating disorders work.
well… it works is a simple sense, but everybody knows that disorder such as this is never simple and not easy to handle.
so let me break this down for you, because i've watched him. i've been in that circus longer than you have. i've seen the way his starry eyes track you across the room. i've felt the weight of his gaze when he thinks no one is looking.
and spoiler alert? he's always looking.
in summary, by now, we all know pierrot operates from a place of deep, unhealed attachment trauma. we're talking reactive attachment disorder territory, mixed with some pretty severe abandonment issues and a nice sprinkle of obsessive-compulsive tendencies that he's never learned to manage.
so, he doesn't understand the word… casual.
he doesn't understand "i'll see you tomorrow" because tomorrow isn't guaranteed. not to him.
the reason why because pierrot's primary love language is acts of service. specifically, cooking. when he bakes for the mc—YOU, he's not just making dessert. he's saying "i love you." he's saying "i want to take care of you." he's saying "please don't leave me."
so when the MC eats his food—eats all of it, eats too much of it, eats until it hurts so pierrot doesn't see a disorder. he sees validation.
every bite is affirmation. every empty plate is proof that he's needed. that he's good at something. that he's not worthless.
here's where it gets complicated. pierrot is obsessive, yes. he's possessive, yes. but he's not stupid. he's not blind. he notices things. he notices when the mc's hands shake. he notices when they disappear into the bathroom after a meal. he notices when they laugh too brightly and say "i'm fine" in a voice that means anything but.
and dearest ask, that noticing? it terrifies him.
because on one hand, if he stops baking, he loses his primary way of connecting with the MC. he loses the smiles, the thanks, the quiet moments where they eat his brigadeiros and look at him like he's done something wonderful.
but on the other hand, if he keeps baking, he might be hurting them. and pierrot would rather die than hurt someone he loves.
so what does he actually do?
well, in the short and recap answer.
❝Pierrot's love is a beautiful, terrifying tragedy. He does not know how to hold a string without pulling until it snaps. If you take advantage of his baking to hurt yourself… he would not see the sickness at first. He would only see that you are devouring what he makes, and his broken-broken heart would mistake that hunger for love. He wants so desperately to be needed. He would keep baking… and baking… and filling the plate.❞
❝But the moment he realizes his hands are the ones feeding your destruction? The moment he sees he is making you unhealthy? He would shatter. He would stop baking instantly. He would lock the kitchen, hide the sugar, and likely weep into his apron. His desire to make you happy is massive… but his fear of losing another person he loves to the darkness is much, much bigger. He would force you to stop, even if it meant you hated him for it.❞
don’t believe me?
let's say you're been doing this for weeks, months.
It starts, as most things with pierrot do, with brigadeiros.
You're in his tent. The familiar smell of chocolate and condensed milk wraps around you like a blanket. he's humming, like soft, melodic, something you don't recognize—as he rolls the little truffles in chocolate sprinkles.
“For you, my dear," he says, presenting the plate like an offering.
You take one. It's good. It's always good. The sweetness melts on your tongue, and for a moment, everything is simple.
“Another?" his starry eyes are bright and hopeful.
You should say no. Your body and mind is already whispering warnings but his face crumbles at the slightest hesitation, so you take another, another, and another.
You lose count after five.
Pierrot is beaming now, like his whole posture has softened, shoulders loose, hands fluttering with happiness. “You like them," he breathes. “You really like them."
You do like them. That's the problem.
Later, you're in the bathroom. Your stomach aches and throat burns. You stare at your reflection and wonder when food stopped being fuel and started being a battlefield.
Pierrot doesn't know.
Except he does. Sort of.
Well, he notices that you only eat when he's watching. he notices that you push food around your plate when you think he's distracted. he notices the way your eyes flick to the exit after every meal, like you're calculating the fastest route to somewhere private.
He doesn't understand what he's seeing but he knows it's wrong. "my dear," he says one evening, after you've barely touched the coxinha he spent hours making. "did i... do something wrong?"
You look up at his starry eyes are dim. not voids—not yet—but close. "no," you say. "it's not you."
“Then what is it?"
And you don't have an answer. Not one you're ready to give.
so you lie. "i'm just not hungry."
Pierrot nods slowly but his hands are shaking when he clears the plate.
Then the breaking point comes few days later.
You're not sure why. Maybe it's the way he's been watching you more closely. Maybe it's the way your jeans fit differently. maybe it's just that secrets have weight, and you've been carrying this one for too long.
You're sitting at his table. There's a plate of macarons in front of you—his latest attempt, delicate and colorful and perfect.
you take one. Then another. Then how about three more?
Pierrot's eyes go wide. “My dear—"
“I know," you say, and your voice sounds strange, a bit detached like you're listening to someone else speak. “I know I shouldn't but I can't stop."
“Why would you want to stop?" he asks, genuinely confused. “You’re eating. that's... that's good, isn't it?"
You laugh, it comes out broken. “No, pierrot. it's not good. iI’s never been good."
His face crumples. “I don't understand."
And this where you tell him. Not everything. Not the worst parts to freak him out but enough for him to handle and understand.
You tell him about the numbers, the calculations, the way you measure your worth in calories consumed and calories burned. You tell him about the guilt that follows every bite, the shame that curls in your stomach like a living thing.
You tell him that you love his food—like you absolutely do but you also hate it because loving it means wanting it. And wanting it means eating it.
And eating it means… hating yourself.
Pierrot is very quiet afterwords.
When you finally look up, his eyes are voids, just black and empty, the cute golden stars have disappeared. “I did this," he whispers. “I made you sick."
“Holy shit no—"
“I kept feeding you. I kept watching you eat. I saw the signs—I think and I—“ his voice cracks. “I didn't want to see because if I saw, I might have to stop. and if I stopped, you might leave."
he covers his face with his hands and shoulders shake.
“Pierrot." you reach for him. he flinches.
“I’m a monster," he says. Not like it's new, more like he's known it all along and just didn't want to admit it. “I’m a monster and i hurt you and i—"
“Please stop." You grab his wrists to pull his hands away from his face, seeing thoes cute starry eyes are back, unstable, wet with tears.
“You didn't know," you say. “You couldn't have known. I didn't tell you."
“I should have asked."
“Maybe.” you squeeze his wrists gently. “But you know now."
He stares at you as his breath is shaky, “what do we do?"
and anon, that's the question, isn't it?
Well what was next was rather… messy.
Pierrot doesn't stop baking but he starts asking first. “Are you hungry?" not “Here, eat this." He leaves space for no. He leaves space for "maybe later." he learns to hear rejection without hearing abandonment.
You start being honest. Not all the time and not perfectly but when the numbers get too loud, you tell him where the guilt is too heavy, you let him hold you. When you can't eat, he doesn't push. He just sits with you and says "okay. we'll try again later."
Some days are good, and some days are terrible.
Some days you eat three brigadeiros and don't hate yourself for it. Some days you eat nothing and Pierrot holds your hair back while you cry about it.
He learns your triggers, the way certain textures make your throat close up. The way buffets make your brain short-circuit. The way praise around food can feel like pressure, even when it's meant kindly.
You learn his. The way he needs to be needed. The way his hands shake when he thinks he's failing. The way his love language is acts of service, and how hard it is for him to show love in other ways.
Then one random night, pierrot brings you a single brigadeiro.
“I wanted to give you more," he admits, setting the plate down carefully. “But i thought... maybe one is easier than many."
you look at the little truffle with chocolate sprinkles and soft center. Made by hands that love you.
“One is easier," you say.
You eat it slowly. savoring. when you're done, pierrot's starry eyes are bright again, not because you ate but because you're still here. because you trusted him enough to try.
“Thank you," he whispers.
“For what?"
“For letting me learn, my dear."
You don't have words for how that makes you feel. So you just reach for him and he understands immediately. Pierrot did always been good at reading the things you don't say.
He curls into you slowly, carefully, like he's asking permission with every movement. HIs long limbs fold around you, pulling you close against his chest. HIs face finds the crook of your neck first, then drifts lower, nuzzling into the soft fabric of your shirt, right over your heart.
His nose presses gently against your sternum. his breath is warm, even through the fabric. his starry eyes flutter closed, and he makes a sound, something small and content, like a sigh and a hum all at once.
“You’re warm," he murmurs against your chest. “You're always so warm. i forget, sometimes. how alive you feel."
You card your fingers through his hair. I’ts soft, a little tangled. He leans into your touch like a cat starved for affection.
“Pierrot."
“Mm?"
“You're rubbing your face on me."
“Yes." he doesn't stop. if anything, he presses closer, his cheek squishing against your chest. “Is that... not allowed?"
You huff a laugh. “I didn't say that."
“Good." his voice is muffled. “Because I was not going to stop."
You felt his arms tighten around your waist. His massive body relaxes into yours, like he's been holding himself together all day and finally doesn't have to anymore.
“I like this," he whispers. “I like being close to you. I like feeling your heartbeat. I like knowing you're real." You keep stroking his hair, watching his eyelids grow heavy.
“You're going to fall asleep," you say.
“Maybe." his voice is soft. sleepy. but then something shifts. his arms tighten again—not painfully, but firmly. Like he's anchoring himself to you. Like he's afraid you'll drift away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.
“Do you know," he murmurs against your chest, "how much i love you?"
You don't answer. You're not sure you're supposed to.
“I love you like..." he pauses, searching for words. “Like hunger. The kind that never goes away. the kind that gnaws at you even when you've just eaten."
You hand freezes in his hair.
“I love you like the famine," he continues, quieter now. "like the days when we had nothing. when columbina's bones were picked clean and we were still starving. that's how much i need you."
“Pierrot—"
“I know." he nuzzles deeper into your chest, his breath hitching. “I know that's not... healthy. I know i shouldn't say it. but you asked me once, remember? You asked me why i watch you eat. why i keep baking even when you can't finish."
You remember. You remember the way his eyes went void, even the way his voice cracked.
“It's because," he says, "when you eat, you're still here. when you eat, you're choosing to stay. And i need you to stay, my dear. I need you to stay more than I need air. More than I need food. more than I need—" his voice breaks.
“More than I need myself."
The silence stretches between you. Just heavy and tender. Wrong in so many ways, however feels almost right. You should probably say something. Tell him that's too much. That his love shouldn't feel like drowning. But your throat is tight, and his body is warm against yours, and somewhere deep down—somewhere you don't like to look, you understand exactly what he means.
Because isn't that what your eating disorder is?
A hunger that never ends?
The need to control something, anything, because the world is too big and you're too small?
“Pierrot," you say finally.
“Yes my dear?"
“That's... a lot."
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet with something that looks like terror and devotion all at once.
“I know," he whispers. “I know it's a lot. I know I’m too much. I know I should love you quietly, the way normal people do. but i don't know how." his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. “I only know how to love like this. Like I’m dying. Like you're the only thing keeping me alive."
You stare at him, his mask is pale in the dim light, his ruffled collar is crooked. He looks small, somehow. Even though he's massive. even though he could probably crush you without trying.
“I don't want you to love me like you're dying," you say.
“Then how?" his voice cracks. “Tell me how. I’ll do it. I’ll learn. i'll—" he swallows. “I’ll try." You take his face in your hands. his cheeks are cool. damp with tears you didn't notice him crying.
"love me like you're living," you say. “Not like you're surviving. like you're here. like you're safe. like you don't have to earn me by suffering." His breath catches.
“I don't know how to do that," he admits.
“Then we'll learn together."
His starry eyes shines, hearts. "together," he repeats, like he's tasting the word. "together." He presses his face back into your chest. not desperate this time. just... present. his arms stay wrapped around you, but they're not clinging anymore. they're holding. there's a difference.
“I love you," he says against your heart. “I love you in the hungry way and the full way and all the ways in between. i love you even when i'm doing it wrong."
You kiss the top of his head.
“I know," you say. “I love you too."
Afterwords, he doesn't fall asleep right away. He stays awake, listening to your heartbeat, tracing small patterns on your back with his fingertips. slow circles. gentle lines. like he's memorizing the shape of you beneath his hands.
Your breathing evens out first. Then your body goes slack against his. Pierrot notices the exact moment you slip under — the way your hand uncurls from his shirt, the way your pulse slows against his cheek.
He doesn't move. Instead he lies there, holding you, feeling the rise and fall of your chest. his starry eyes are open now. watching. cataloging.
“My dear," he whispers, so soft it's barely a breath.
He lifts his head just enough to look at your face. Peaceful. Relaxed. the tension you carry during the day, the furrow between your brows, the tightness in your jaw, all of it has melted away.
“You're so beautiful when you sleep," he says quietly. "you're beautiful when you're awake too. but when you're asleep..." he pauses, searching for words. "you look like you're not hurting. and that's all i've ever wanted for you."
His thumb brushes your cheek. Featherlight.
“I know I love you wrong," he admits, voice barely audible. “I know i'm too much. I know I should give you space. Let you
breathe. Let you eat or not eat without making it about me."
His eyes shines, hearts formed in his eyes.
“But I can't stop. I’ve tried. Every time I see you push food around your plate, every time i hear you in the bathroom, every time you say 'i'm fine' in that voice that means the opposite—I feel like i'm dying."
His presses his forehead to yours, then breath warm against your lips.
“So I’ll keep baking. I’ll keep watching. I’ll keep holding you like this even when you tell me i'm smothering you." a shaky exhale. "because the alternative is letting go. and i don't know how to do that. i don't think i ever will."
You shift in your sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. pierrot freezes, like he's been caught. But you don't wake up. You just curl closer, your nose pressing into his collarbone.
His arms tighten around you. Not desperate.
Just... grateful.
that's the heart of the circus, dearie. bleeding-bleeding all over the floor and calling it love.
anyway. I should probably… tuck myself back into my tent.
but don't you worry, darling thing. You'll see me soon. Once i'm finished being… revamped, stitched and improved.
❝every pin is a promise. every removal is a mercy.❞
now take care of yourself, and maybe… don't accept any homemade brigadeiros from a clown with heart-eyes!
— 𝓅𝑜𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓉 ꩜
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
so here’s a short update, ill be on SEMI-hiatus (CLOSED ask box; may answer a few ones i like) throughout the month of April and May will be busy with academic/research stuff, it’s the second half of exams/finals and in May I’ll be taking the MCAT.
IM BEGGING FOR THIS SPRING SEMESTER TO END.
beside that, what I posted today has been sitting in my draft, so I decided to posted it to feed y’all and to show im still here 😭
anyway, once I’m done with all my academic stuff and the summer, i deadass cannot guarantee that ill keep up consistent of writing about VNs.
meaning I straight up just wanna focus on creepypasta stuff.
so I made the decision to complete TFC with the NSFW alphabet so i can focus on Killer Chat (because that’s unfair to not write about it since the inky list is already posted and I still wanna write for a bit for that fandom)
and yeah… that’s it! sorry I don’t have much to say, or explain on, i haven’t been on social media as much since I’ve been handling irl responsibilities/relationships and studying that i had to make the sacrifices to stop writing for a bit.
anyway! next post will be creepypasta related! — yaya!
Hi hi! Hope you're doing alright! Got finished with midterms last week for the first time, and gotta say, I am BURNT out. Had to write a research analysis paper on the effects of COVID on human development, and while fun, it took all of my remaining energy with it. Hope you're doing alright on that end :')
Some updates about me are that you have inspired me to make a fanfiction account! I have never published fanfic (other than the embarrassing sans x reader fic I posted when I was like, 12... yikes), and I'm not too experienced with creative writing. Even still, I'd like to try it. :)
Anyway, I hope you're having a good week! Stay safe and hydrated 🫶
you are not the only one! 😭
here’s my updates: i know i’ve been gone quite someone but ever since i told my 1/2 exams in march, told maybe ill write over spring break—I ended up sleeping/studying the whole week. even now it’s about to be 2/2 exams then it’s finals and then MCAT.
like fives weeks until i get freedom.
IM BEGGING FOR THIS SPRING SEMESTER TO END!
those research papers are so ass too, as much i enjoy psychology/neuroscience, including pre med classes, it has took all my time, just killing me slowly.
however can’t say im burnt out—I’ve been out of the loop on tumblr/social media and differently missed a ton of updates of fandoms im in, deadass im lowkey lazy to catch up and have no time right now to get myself back into the habit.
beside academics, whenever i have free time, instead of writing, i’ve been hanging out with friends too—please don’t think y’all writer doesn’t have a life, she’s in fact has a social life and rather not spend all her free time looking at a computer screen (not ideal lifestyle). plus it’s been helping me come up with plots for future creepypasta stories (my friends read my fics too)
anyway! im glad you made a fanfic amount! i recall my first time, it was a confusing start but eventually i figure out how i wanted to design and present my work to others.
and you’re not the only one who posted embarrassing fics in my youth, I did the same on wattpad but it’s was monster high theme? no, i will not tell you the amount name, it’s so bad 😅
thanks for sending this ask, i adore when some of y’all check up on me, making sure im alive.
not a request, just a question! when the new days for tkatb come out, do you plan to play them? or are you just fully done with it overall?
hey dearie!
to answer your question, i’m fully done with tkatb.
last year, it was fun playing the visual novel and interacting with other fans in the fandom. im greatful that the game alone pushed me into writing fanfics, it also helped me though some difficult times.
im not sure if i would play the game (maybe to see geo again), truth be told ive been grew out of playing visual novels lately (beside killer chat) and been focusing irl responsibilities because i simply don’t have the time and the amount of drama and younger audience in these spaces be happening ain’t worth my time and energy to feed into.
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
✑ 𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You've officially started your new job. Well, your second job. Circus Runner—a title that sounds made up and probably is. But the pay is better, the hours are strange, and the coworkers are... well. You know the coworkers.
It's been a few weeks since the dear absence of the poppet, Inkyette. She's off getting upgrades—circus-speak for "being rebuilt from the stitches up." You're not entirely sure how that works. You're not entirely sure you want to know.
But while she's gone, the circus has offered you a chance to stick around. To help. To run things, whatever that means.
Turns out, it means a lot of things. You're about to learn a lot about the circus. About the ones who live here. About the one who isn't here anymore. And about yourself—and where you fit in all of it.
Welcome to the job, little scholar.
✑ 𝓌𝒸: 9.6K
✑ 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: anon once again! now this one was a little tricky for me to write. it's more of intro, a new job, and tried to make sure you feel connected to the reader.
✑ 𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot/s · tfc x gn! reader · lil angst · found family · psychological horror undertones · domestic moments · belonging · emotional hurt/comfort.
The path to the circus looked different in daylight.
You'd walked it a hundred times before—sometimes at night or day, always with that playful voice of Inkyette's in your ear or her poppet form tucked in your bag, yapping about anything.
Yet today was different. Your new job started at noon.
A Circus Runner, they'd called it.
You still weren't entirely sure what that meant. Ticket Taker had explained it in his usual clipped, precise way—"facilitation of logistics, management of external resources, liaison between domains"—however you'd nodded along without really understanding what hell is he talking about.
What you understood was the pay.
Which is way more than the café. Significantly more. Enough that you'd put your other job on the back burner without a second thought.
"Taking fewer shifts," you'd told your boss, a kind man who'd never once complained about your strange hours or the way you sometimes talked to thin air. "Focusing on some important matters."
He'd blinked at you through the display case before standing up fully, confused but respectful. "You're not the type to just quit on people," he'd said. "So I trust you. Let me know if you need anything."
Guilt had twisted in your stomach then. Guilt that still hadn't fully faded. Because you weren't doing this for the money. Not really.
You were doing it for her. Well, for all of them.
Ahead, you saw the circus gates loomed ahead, and stopped. Now you hadn't let yourself think about her directly. Not since that night. Not since the confession and weight of everything she'd been.
But now, standing at the threshold of her home—her prison, her sanctuary, her everything—the truth crashed over you like cold water.
You never realized how much of an anchor she was.
She'd been everywhere at the circus. Not physically—she was just a poppet, just a whisper. But everywhere. In every interaction you'd had. In every moment of safety. In every laugh and every fear and every step you'd taken through this impossible place.
She was dead. But she was so, so alive.
And now she was gone.
Not forever. Not truly. As mention, Doctor working on her new body in some hidden corner of the circus, and one day she'd return, perhaps whole, real, present. But until then...
You were alone.
And somehow, impossibly, you were supposed to fill the space she'd left.
Ticket Taker was waiting.
As always, waiting, watching, there with his crisp suit, his one white eye and his ledger full of things you'd never understand. "Visitor," he greeted, the word neutral but not cold. "You're early for once.”
"Didn't want to be late on my first day."
A look of something—approval? amusement?—crossed his features. "Admirable. Follow me." He turned and walked into the circus without waiting to see if you followed.
You followed as the midway stretched before you, empty and silent in the afternoon light. No performances. No crowds. Just the skeletal frames of rides and the faded colors of tents and the weight of a thousand eyes you couldn't see.
"Your duties will be explained gradually," Ticket Taker said, not looking back. "Today, you will shadow. Observe. Learn the layout, if you haven't already." A pause. "You will also be... observed."
"By who?"
"Everyone." He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that it took a moment to register.
"You mean—"
"The circus is curious about you." He stopped walking, turning to face you. “The poppet, Inkyette's... attachment to you was well known. Her absence has left questions. About you. About your role. About your intentions."
"My intentions?"
"Some may ask out of curiosity. Some out of closeness. Some..." His eye flickered, eventually blue and white appeared. "Out of hate."
The word hung in the air. "Hate? Who would—"
“You’ll see. Just know you are an unknown variable. You were hers. You may believe that we have just given her to you as a gift, but that was not her purpose. That gives you status, but also target." He turned and resumed walking. “Here. You duties begin now."
He held out a folded piece of paper. "Your duties for today. Standard orientation tasks. Do not lose this."
You took it, unfolding it to reveal neat, precise handwriting in dark purple ink.
✑ DAILY ASSIGNMENTS – CIRCUS RUNNER.
Pierrot – Preparatory assistance for evening performance (Carousel, 10:30 AM)
Harlequin – Prop retrieval and setup (Game Midway, 11:45 AM)
Jester – Big top inspection (observation only) (Big Top, 1:30 PM)
Columbina – Mirror maintenance (Hall of Mirrors, after sunset)
You looked up. "This is... a lot."
"The circus does not stop because you are new. It stops for nothing." His eyes—blue and white, fixed on you. "You will learn. You will adapt. You will survive."
The word hung in the air. "And the questions?" you asked. “Everyone wanting to... know me?"
"They will ask." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "You will answer, or you will not. That is your choice. But they will ask. Like I mention before, Curiosity. Closeness. Love. Hate. All of the above. Be prepared."
He turned to go, then paused. "One more thing, Visitor."
"Yes?"
"You are not her. Do not try to be. She was… irreplaceable and practical.” A look of something—grief? loss?—crossed his neatly features. "But you are here. That is enough. For now. Get to your first assignment please, visitor"
He walked away before you could respond.
✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉
Pierrot would ask with desperate, trembling hope, wanting to know if you're like… her, if you'll stay like… she did, if you'll love him the way she taught him to love.
The carousel at dusk was a different creature entirely.
The tent area was still in daylight shine—so less ghostly, more empty sine guest don’t be let in until after you’re finished. The frozen horses waited in their eternal gallop, paint faded, eyes blank.
You found Pierrot there, as the list said you would.
He stood by the white stallion—the one with the rose on its flank—running his long fingers along its mane with a tenderness that made your chest ache. He was already in his performance attire: the ruff, the traditional clown whites, the painted face that made him both beautiful and tragic.
But his mask wasn't fully on yet. Not the performance mask. This was still him—the him that existed in the spaces between shows, the him that only a few ever saw.
He turned when you approached, and his amber eye lit up. Not with the desperate void you'd seen that night at the gate, but with something softer. Something almost like hope.
"You came," he breathed, his high, melodic voice carrying across the empty space. "I wasn't certain you would. The list said 'assistance,' but lists can be... misleading."
"I'm here," you confirmed, stepping onto the carousel platform. "What do you need?"
He gestured vaguely at the horses, at the carousel itself. "Everything. Nothing. The act is... complicated. There are preparations. Rituals. Things that must be done exactly so, or the performance feels wrong."
He moved to the black mare, adjusting her saddle with practiced ease. "I've done this alone for so long. Before..." He trailed off, something flickering across his features. "There used to be… someone. Someone who helped. Who understood what I needed before I needed it. Who watched from the shadows and made sure I never went too far."
His voice dropped, soft and wondering.
"She was always there. Always watching. Not in the way the audience watches, hungry, demanding, but in a way that felt... safe. Like no matter how dark it got, I wasn't truly alone."
You picked up a cloth and began dusting the nearest horse, letting him talk.
"She helped kept me tame," he continued, a sad smile touching his painted lips. "I wasn't always... like this. The wanting. The needing. The fear of losing. I was more gentle, once. More patient." He laughed, soft and broken. "She taught me… showed me that wanting didn't have to mean clutching so tight you break what you hold."
He moved to the next horse, adjusting its bridle.
"But she's gone, well, for now. And I'm... I'm trying. To be what she taught me. But it's hard. It's so hard when all I want is to keep you somewhere safe, somewhere no one else can reach, somewhere you'll never leave." His confession hung in the air, heavy and raw.
You kept working, not trusting yourself to speak, just listen. The cloth moved over painted wood, over gold leaf, over the worn saddles that bore the imprint of countless performances.
Pierrot watched you for a long moment, then continued.
"There was a day," he said quietly, "not long after she... not long after things changed. I was in the midway, just standing, just existing, and this man—this human—he didn't like the way I looked at him. Or maybe he didn't like the way I looked at all. He started shouting. Pushing. Trying to make me react."
His eye found yours. "And then you were there."
You stopped dusting. "Me?"
"Not you specifically. Same scenario, different person. But someone like you. Someone who stepped between us and told him to stop. Someone who looked at me—really looked—and saw someone worth protecting, not just a monster to fear."
He moved closer, his presence warm and overwhelming. "You reminded me of her in that moment. Not in looks. In presence. The way you just... stay. Even when you shouldn't. Even when staying is dangerous."
His hand reached out, trembling, and brushed your cheek. "You told me I would never be put in that situation again. That I was safe. That I was worth protecting." His eyes shimmered. "No one had ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not like they meant it."
You swallowed hard. "Pierrot..."
"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out, desperate and raw. "For how I've been. For showing up at your apartment. For wanting so much it scares me. She taught me to be better than this. To want without breaking. To love without consuming. And I'm trying. I swear I'm trying. But every time I think about losing you—about you leaving, about you choosing someone else—I can't breathe. I can't think. I can't be." He leans down, his forehead pressed to yours, gentle but desperate.
"Please. Tell me what you need. Tell me how to love you the right way. Tell me what boundaries to keep, what lines not to cross. I'll follow them. I'll follow you. Just... please. Don't leave. Don't stop staying."
You stood there, forehead to forehead, his breath warm on your skin, his whole body trembling with the effort of restraint. "I need you to ask me things," you finally said. "Real things. Not just... desperate things. Questions that help you understand me, so you don't have to guess what I need."
He pulled back slightly, eyes wide. “…Questions?"
"Yes. Ask me what you want to know. What you're afraid to know. What you need to know."
He was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then, slowly, his voice emerged: "What do you need from me? Not from… Harlequin, not from the circus—from me. Specifically." The question was so simple, so vulnerable, that it broke something open in you.
"I need you to trust me. To believe that I'll stay without being trapped. To let me come to you, instead of always coming to me."
He nodded, filing it away. "What scares you? About me?"
"Losing myself. Forgetting who I am outside of what you need from me."
"Good. That's... that's good to know." Another pause. "What makes you happy? When you're with me?"
You thought about it. "The quiet moments. When you're not performing, not wanting, just... being. Like this. Like now." His eyes softened. "I can give you that. I want to give you that."
He reached for your hand, holding it gently.
"What do you want from the future? From us? From... whatever this is?"
Wow. That question was bigger than you expected. "I want to see if we can build something that doesn't break. Something that survives even when it's hard." His grip tightened. "We can. I know we can. She taught me that—taught me that love can survive anything if both people choose it. Every day. Every moment. Choose."
He looked at you, and for the first time, his eye held something other than desperate want. Something almost like peace.
"One more question," he whispered. "Just one."
"Okay."
"If I'm too much—if I cross a line, if I scare you, if I start to become what I'm afraid of being—will you tell me? Will you stop me? Will you stay long enough to help me find my way back?"
It was the most vulnerable thing he'd ever asked.
"Yes," you promised. "Always."
He closed his eyes, smiling just a bit. "Thank you," he breathed. "Thank you for staying. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for choosing to try." His hand lifted, hovered near your face, then dropped.
"You should go, my dear" he said quietly. “…He... is waiting. The list doesn't stop for sentiment."
You glanced at your phone. 11:30. He was right.
“He'll… be insufferable if you're late," Pierrot added, a hint of fond exasperation in his voice. "More than usual."
You laughed softly. "True."
You turned to go, but his voice stopped you. "Again, thank you. For today. For... this." He gestured at the carousel, at the space between you, at everything. "For staying."
You looked back at him—at his tragic beauty, at his desperate love, at the way he held himself so carefully, so carefully, trying not to break what he wanted most.
"Always," you promised. His eyes shimmered.
Then you turned and walked toward the Game Midway, toward sharp grins and sharper games, toward the next monster on your list.
✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃
Harlequin would ask with sharp edges hiding soft centers, simply testing, pushing, but secretly needing to know if you see him the way… she did.
The Game Midway, green tent area was chaos incarnate.
Harlequin had apparently decided to "reorganize" all the prizes, which meant they were now scattered across every surface in a glorious mess. He stood in the center, hands on his hips, looking profoundly pleased with himself.
Then he spotted you immediately, that jagged grin spreading across his features. "There you are! Finally! I've been waiting." He gestured dramatically at the mess. "As you can see, I've been... creatively reorganizing."
"With what?"
"Everything." He gestured grandly at the chaos. "I had a vision. A concept. And then the execution got... messy."
You looked at the mess. At him. At the mess again. "You did this on purpose."
"Obviously. But now I need to fix it before the performance, and I need help, and you're here." He batted his eyelashes. "Pretty please?"
You let out a deep breath and started gathering the plush toys. He was there beside you, though "working" was a stretch. Most of what he was doing was watching, his tendrils floating closer and closer with every time you bent down, his comments becoming more and more taunting. He'd point, and you'd pick up the toy. He'd gesture, and you'd try to figure out what he was getting at. He'd make some ridiculous comment, and you'd just groan and get back to work.
It was... nice. In a chaotic sort of way.
"You know," he said, not looking at you, "you're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone who ran. The first time things got weird. The first time I got... too much." He paused, adjusting a row of prizes with unnecessary precision. "But you didn't. You stayed. Like someone else I used to know."
The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been.
You kept working, not pushing, just... present.
"She was like that, you know." His voice was lighter now, almost casual, but you could hear the weight beneath. "The one who used to... keep things running. Before you."
He grabbed another armful of prizes, not looking at you.
"Everyone sees me one way. Just the green clown. The attention-seeker. The slutty one, if you want to be crass about it." His grin sharpened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Like I'm not layered. Like I'm not complex. Like I'm just some shallow creature who exists to be looked at and nothing more."
You stopped moving. Listened.
"She didn't see me like that." His voice softened, just slightly. "She saw... more. She was assertive—god, she could be assertive. Wouldn't take my mess, wouldn't let me get away with anything. But she was also the utmost kind. The kind of kind that doesn't need you to be different to love you. Just needs you to be trying."
He pause for a few seconds.
"She joined this place knowing exactly what it was. Knowing what we were. And she stayed anyway. Stayed through the fights, through the chaos, through me and with… Pierrot and then pretending I didn't care when she made us make up."
He laughed, soft and surprised.
"I did care. I cared so much it terrified me. And she knew. She always knew. Didn't need me to say it. Just... knew." He turned to face you fully then, and for once, there was no performance. No sharp grin. No teasing glint. Just him—raw and real and vulnerable in a way you'd never seen.
"Speaking of which." He dropped the armful of frogs. "Question time."
You narrowed your eyes. "This better not be one of your freaky games."
"It's not." A pause. "Well. Maybe a little. But I'm being serious. Mostly."
"Fine. Ask."
"What's your limit?"
The question caught you off guard. "Limit?"
"With this. With... me.” He gestured vaguely at himself, at the chaos, at everything. "When do you push back? When do you say 'no'? I need to know where the edge is now." The vulnerability beneath the bravado was almost painful.
"You'll know," you said slowly. "Because I'll tell you. Loudly. And you'll stop."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll leave. Possibly."
Something moved in his eyes—fear, quickly masked. "Noted."
He grabbed another armful of prizes and went back to work, quieter now. Thoughtful.
A few minutes passed in silence. Then: "What do you see when you look at me?"
You glanced up. He wasn't looking at you, focused intently on arranging frogs by color. You considered the question. "I see someone who's been seen one way for so long he forgot he could be seen differently. Someone who uses chaos as a shield and sharp edges as armor. Someone who's terrified of being boring, of being forgettable, of being nothing."
He went still.
"And underneath all that?" you continued. "I see someone who cares. Desperately. Messily. In ways he doesn't know how to express except through games and provocations. Someone who fights with Pierrot and then sulks until someone makes them apologize. Someone who needs people to see him, really see him, and then doesn't know what to do when they do."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, mumbles softly: "That's... hmph. You really are like her.” One more stretch of quiet before he asked—
"What do you need from me?"
Which, the question alone was so simple, so direct, so unlike him that it took a moment to process.
"To be real with me," you finally said. "To drop the performance when it's just us. To trust that I can handle the parts you hide. To let me see you—the real you—and not just the character you've created."
He nodded, a slow movement of his head, then turned away a fraction of an inch. “Tch. Fine. Don’t expect miracles. I’m not making promises, but… I’ll think about it.” He smiled, a real smile, small and soft and honest. “You know, for a human, you’re surprisingly tolerable.”
“High praise.”
Silence fell as you finished your task, the mess giving way to something almost orderly. When the last prize was in place, you stepped back to look at what you’d done.
“Not bad,” Harlequin said, “fo a little thing.”
“For a clown, you’re not terrible,” you said back.
He laughed—a real laugh, surprised and genuine.
Then, just as you were about to leave, his hand caught your wrist. "For what it's worth," he murmured, voice low and sincere, "Try not to be a stranger."
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and precise. “As much as I’d love to steal all your time,” he continued, releasing his hold on your wrist, “you’ve got Jester next. And he’s a lot less fun than I am. Go. Before he sends someone to fetch you.”
He stepped back, disappearing into the labyrinth of games with his effortless, almost liquid movement. But his voice remained once more: “See you around, little runner~ try not to get crushed by the mountain.”
And then he was gone.
✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇
Jester would ask with gravity and weight, not out of emotion, but out of assessment. He needs to know if you're worth the space… she left.
The large purple tent at dusk was a different creature altogether.
The purple glow was beginning to appear, seeping through the fabric of the tent as if it were a breath, or blood if blood had the color of twilight and dreams. The seats rose up out of the shadows, tier upon tier of empty benches that would be occupied tonight, watching and wanting and needing. And in the center of it all, as still as a mountain, stood the Jester.
He didn’t turn when you stepped inside.
He didn’t have to. He’d felt you the instant your foot brushed the sawdust. “Little human.” His voice wasn’t so much heard as felt—a tremor that settled in your chest, your bones, the gaps between your thoughts. “Observe.”
That was it. Just “observe.”
You lingered at the ring’s edge and watched.
He moved through his realm with the steady certainty of tides and changing seasons, as if some truths stood too large to doubt.
Every gesture bent the space around him; every step issued a subtle edict the world would dread or obey.
"Is that so?"
"After a long stretch of minutes—time moving on its own pace here—he paused."
"You did not speak."
"You told me to observe."
“Good.” He finally turned, and those burning eyes locked on you. Two violet furnaces that could see through skin and bone and into the shape of your soul. “You listen. She taught you well.”
Her name was like a puff of smoke on the breeze.
He remained rooted where he stood, yet the space between you seemed to close. That was his way—he didn’t step forward, but his presence narrowed the space between you, as if distance was a suggestion he chose to ignore.
“She came here the same way,” he said, his voice now different. Not soft—nothing about him was soft—but with a note of remembrance. Like stone recalling when it was lava. “Chasing something. Running from something. Often, the two are the same.”
You said nothing. From her, from them, you had learned that silence was often the best invitation.
“She was human,” he went on, “but her choices were not accepted among her kind. Too curious. Too stubborn. Too willing to look at things that should not be looked at.” He paused, his head cocked to one side. “She ran. Not from fear, frustration. From the weight of being told ‘no’ when every fiber of her being screamed ‘yes’.”
He adjusted, but not towards you, merely tracing a slow loop around the ring, his presence filling every corner of the space.
“She found the circus. Found me first, actually. Walked right up to me after a show, fearless as hell, and started asking questions.” Another pause. “I could have crushed her. Should have, by the old rules. But she looked at me like I was… interesting. Not terrifying. Not monstrous. Interesting.”
He completed his circle, stopping exactly where he'd begun.
"She became the thing that held us together. Not through power. Not through fear. Through presence. Through simply being here, day after day, until we could not imagine the circus without her."
He turned to face you, and the weight of his gaze was like something you could feel, like something you could grasp.
"You are not her."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the same weight he might use to declare the sun would set.
"No," you agreed. "I'm not."
"Good. I would not want a copy." He stepped closer, his massive form eating distance with terrible grace. "Copies are useless. They break. They fade. They remind us of what we lost without offering anything new."
He stopped just short of arm's reach, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.
"You're something else. A category I haven't even coined yet." His head tilted, a slow, considering motion. "This is... intriguing."
The word hung there, suspended like smoke.
“First question, little one: what’re you doing here?”
So simple. So vast.
“I want to help,” you said. “I want to learn. I want to understand this place, everyone well enough to be useful.”
“Useful.” He rolled the word on his tongue, letting it land. “A modest aim. Most would say ‘belong.’ Others would say ‘be loved.’ Some would say ‘find purpose.’ You say ‘useful.’”
You shrugged. “I am useful, or I am not. Belonging doesn’t matter if I can’t do anything.”
There was something in the burning eyes. Approval? Interest? Both? Maybe all three.
“You’re smaller than her. Quieter. Less… insistent.” He paused. “But you have not run. Not from Pierrot’s desperation, not from Harlequin’s games, not from any of this. Why?”
“Because they need someone to stay.”
“And that is enough?”
"No." You met his gaze steadily. "But it's a start."
He moved behind you. You felt his presence like a weight settling across your shoulders. "Interesting. You do not claim to love them. You do not claim to understand them. You simply... stay. And let them show you who they are."
"Yes."
"And when they show you something terrible? Something that should make you flee?"
"Then I'll decide what to do with that information."
A long silence. Then:
"You are either very brave or very foolish. I have not yet decided which."
He circled back into view.
"My second question: What do you think you owe her?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. "Owe?"
"The one who is not here. The one who loved you enough to want you in this place." His eyes burned. "What do you owe her for that?"
You thought about it. Really thought.
"To try. To really try. Not to waste the chance she gave me by being here."
"And if trying is not enough?"
"Then I'll try differently."
He moved, as if a shadow had fallen across the earth, his hand reaching up with a menacing slowness. His fingers brushed your chin, tilting your head up, up, until your eyes met his burning violet ones.
He looked at you. At every line. Every shadow. Every tremor you had kept hidden from him.
"You are afraid," he observed.
"Yes."
"Good. Fear is honest." His thumb traced your jaw—surprisingly gentle. "You will prove her right. Or you will prove her wrong. Either way, I will watch."
He looked at you for one more second. “Go. Bil is waiting with his papers. He hates being kept waiting.” He released you and turned away from you, dismissing you as easily as he had summoned you.
You ran. Not out of fear, well there was plenty to fear, but because he had given you leave to do so, and you knew better than to question it. His voice followed you, the final echo:
“Welcome to the circus, little human. Do your best to be interesting.”
✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇
Ticket Taker would ask with precision, filing your answers away, building a profile, but also protecting you the way he… protected her.
In the blue tent, nothing was different from your recollection: tidy, orderly, with a faint tang of ink and old paper in the scent of the air. Ticket Taker sat at his desk, his ledger open before him, his pen moving in exact and careful lines across the page.
He did not look up as you entered his tent.
“Stack A. Stack B. Stack C.” He indicated with his pen to three great stacks of paper on a side table. “Stack A goes into the filing cabinet under ‘Correspondence.’ Stack B goes into ‘Incident Reports.’ Stack C must be sorted chronologically and brought back to me.”
You looked at the stacks of paper. “That’s... a lot of paper.”
“The circus has been around for centuries. Paper accumulates.” Then he looked at you, his eyes small and unreadable as prisms of glass. “Begin.”
So you did.
For the first ten minutes, only the paper sighed, and the pen’s tiny scratches filled the room, punctuated by the soft thump of the stack shifting a little. I fell into a pattern: grab, sort, file, repeat. It was like a quiet mantra.
The Ticket Taker moved beside me, his movements falling into the same rhythm. Page turn. Note. Page turn. Note. It was almost like a hypnotic pattern.
“You’re efficient,” he finally said, his eyes never leaving the papers. “Unexpected.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“A recognition of facts. Compliments are inefficient.” He paused. “But yes.” There was a brief silence before he added, your arms are going to ache, though the stacks were obviously thinning.
“She used to help with this.”
You looked up. “She?”
“The Poppet.” His white eye flickered—the nearest thing to emotion he ever displayed. “Before she became… what she became. Back when she was just a researcher with too many questions and not enough sense.”
You continued to sort, your mind more focused.
“She was useful,” he went on, flatly but without malice. “Exceptionally useful. She had a mind for organization, a mind for categorization, a mind for sense. She’d spend hours in this wagon, helping me file, asking questions, learning the systems.”
He turns a page turned. “We were not close. Not in the human sense. We did not share feelings or confidences or any of that… mess.” The word repulsed him. “But we shared understanding. She saw the value in what I do. The necessity of order. The beauty of a properly kept record.”
Another pause fell into the silence.
“She provided the archived information, so the key to categorizing everything and everyone with precision and machine-like efficiency… just like me. So all the others. Even the visitors and variables.” His blue-and-white eyes focused on you. “Even You.”
You gulped. "Me?"
"Yes," he said, his eyes returning to the page. "Your file was created through her. Your categorization. Your place in this circus." He scribbled more notes. "She made you categorizable to the system. That was her gift."
You went back to work, silent and still for a time. Though, something he'd said lingered in your mind. "You said you weren’t close to her, but you cared about her, didn’t you?"
He paused, his pen hovering over the page. For a single beat, the machinery of him stuttered to a stop. "Caring is inefficient," he admitted finally. "Variables and outcomes—emotion—cannot be controlled."
“That’s not an answer.”
There was a long silence before he spoke up: “She was the only person who never tried to make me feel things. She simply... accepted what I was. What I could provide. What I could not.” His voice was low, his words barely audible. “That is rare. That is... valuable.”
He started to pick up the pen again. "I do not care. I appreciate. There is a difference." A pause. "But if I did care, if I were capable of such inefficiency, it would be for her."
You kept sorting, giving him the silence he clearly needed.
After a moment, he spoke again: "She spoke of you, you know. Before she... left for upgrades."
"She did?"
"Briefly. Efficiently." His tone had a hint of something warmth. "She said you were worth watching. Worth keeping." His white and blue eye found yours. "She was rarely wrong about such things."
Stack B was nearly finished when he spoke again.
"I have questions for you."
It wasn't a request. "Okay."
"First: Why do you stay?"
The question was so simple, so direct, so him.
"Because I want to. Because they need me. Because she asked me to, in her own way."
"Acceptable. Second: What do you need from me?"
You blinked. “What do I need?”
“To function here. To survive. To be useful.” He kept his gaze down. “I am not… emotional. I can’t offer comfort or warmth or any of the things humans often seek. But I can offer structure. Protection. A place in the system. If you need those things, I can provide them.” It might have been the most generous thing anyone had ever said to you.
“I need to understand,” you said slowly. “How things work. Where the lines are. What’s expected.”
“Done.” Another note. “Third: What are you afraid of?”
The question caught you off guard. “Why does that matter?”
“Fear is data. It tells me where you might break, where you might run, where you might need… accommodation.” He paused. “She taught me that. Fear isn’t weakness—it’s information. Useful information.”
You considered the question.
“I’m afraid of not being enough. Of letting them down. Of proving her wrong.”
He nodded slowly. “Noted.”
Stack C was the last—the one that needed chronological sorting. You worked carefully, placing each document in its proper order, building a timeline of incidents and correspondence stretching back decades.
Ticket Taker watched you work, his pen finally still.
"You have her patience," he observed. "Her attention to detail. Not her boldness—you are quieter, more cautious. But the patience is the same."
"Is that good?"
"It is useful. Patience preserves records. Patience prevents errors." A pause. "She had patience too. When it mattered."
You finished Stack C and held it out to him.
He took it, scanned the first few pages, and gave a single, precise nod.
"Adequate. More than adequate." He put it aside. "You may go. The Doctor is waiting."
You started to leave, but his voice called you back.
"Visitor."
You turned to look back.
"Again, you must understand you are not her. You will never be her. But you are... something. Something that belongs here, if you choose to stay."
His stare locked onto yours. "That is enough. For now." That was the closest he would ever come to giving his approval.
You nodded and left. Behind you, the scratch of his pen resumed—adding a note to your file, no doubt. But deep down in that file, in the margins of your newly created entry...
✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇
Doctor would ask with curiosity and fascination, wanting to understand what… she saw, what you are, what makes you tick.
The Infirmary smelled like antiseptic and something else—something organic, unsettling, that you couldn't quite place. The cyan tent walls seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, creating a dim, underwater glow that made everything feel slightly unreal.
Doctor stood at a counter, sorting through glass jars filled with things you actively did not want to identify. His plague mask was pushed up, revealing the sharp lines of his jaw, but his cyan-tinted goggles remained firmly in place.
"Ah, the specimen arrives,” His voice was almost cheerful—clinical, curious, and utterly without malice. "Perfect timing. I need a second set of hands."
You approached slowly, eyeing the jars with open suspicion. "What am I helping with?"
"Inventory. Simple counting. Nothing dangerous." He paused, his head tilting with that particular avian quality he had. "Today."
You decided not to think about what "today" implied.
The task was straightforward enough: count vials, label boxes, organize shelves by some system you couldn't quite parse. Doctor worked beside you with the easy efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times.
For a while, you worked in silence. Then:
"Your heart rate elevates when you're near Harlequin."
You nearly dropped a vial. "I—what?"
"I observe. It's what I do." He didn't look up from his work, but you could feel his attention like a physical weight. "Is it fear? Attraction? Anticipation?"
"I don't know. All of it?"
"Fascinating." A note on his clipboard. "And Pierrot? Your pulse steadies when he's close. Calms. Why?"
You thought about it. "Because he's... safe. In a weird way."
"Safety. From what?"
"From the rest of you. From the chaos. From myself."
Another note. "Excellent. Genuine self-awareness. Rare in humans."
You weren't sure if that was a compliment.
More counting. More labeling. Then, unexpectedly:
"I was not close to her, you know."
You glanced up. His expression was unreadable behind the goggles."The Poppet. The one who is... temporarily absent." He continued sorting, his voice maintaining its clinical calm. "We did not share confidences. We did not seek each other out for comfort or companionship or any of those messy emotional entanglements.
"But?"
His head tilted. "But we shared a passion for research. For understanding. She was curious—genuinely, relentlessly curious—about the mechanisms of this place. About how we functioned, why we functioned, what made us tick."
He paused, holding up a vial to the light.
"I respected that. I respected her. Not for her kindness—though she had it. Not for her loyalty—though it was remarkable. I respected her curiosity. Her willingness to ask questions that had no answers. Her refusal to stop wondering."
He set the vial down.
"She was the only one who ever looked at my work and saw science, not horror. The only one who understood that understanding is its own kind of reverence." He turned to face you fully then, his cyan eyes bright with interest, hinting of bit of redness.
"You are different from her."
It wasn't a question. "I know."
"Good. Copies are useless for research." He stepped closer, studying you with that clinical intensity. "She was curious about the what. The mechanisms, the functions, the systems. You are curious about the who."
He gestured vaguely in the direction of the midway.
"You care about them. Pierrot's desperation. Harlequin's games. The Jester's weight. The Ticket Taker's order." A pause. "Even me, I suspect. Though I cannot fathom why."
You said nothing.
"She felt that, you know. For each of them. For Pierrot, she felt protective devotion—the need to keep him from drowning in his own wanting. For Harlequin, she felt patient understanding—the willingness to see past the performance. For the Jester, she felt... awe, I think. Mixed with something almost like love."
His voice softened, just slightly.
"For the Ticket Taker, she felt respect. For his systems, his order, his peculiar way of caring through categorization. And for me..." He tilted his head. "She felt fascination. The same fascination I feel for interesting specimens. We were each other's most intriguing subjects."
He picked up another vial, turning it in his gloved fingers.
"She loved you too, in her way. Before she left. I could see it—the way her attention sharpened when you were near. The way she catalogued every detail of you. Something I do not have a category for."
He set down the vial and faced you fully.
"I have questions for you. Only two—your time is running short, and you have one more task before sunset. But I would have more, if I could."
"Ask."
"First: Why do you feel? For them? For any of this?" He gestured at the tent, at the circus beyond, at everything. "Most humans would run. Most humans do run. You stay, and you feel, and you do not seem to know how to stop. Why?"
You thought about it. Really thought.
"Because someone has to. Because they deserve to be seen, really seen, by someone who isn't afraid of them. Because she saw them, and she taught me that seeing is its own kind of love."
He nodded slowly, making a note.
"Acceptable. Illogical, but... acceptable."
"Second question." He stepped closer, close enough that you could see your own reflection in his goggles. "What do you hope to find here? At the end of all this staying and seeing and feeling? What is the goal?"
The question was so vast, so impossibly large, that you almost laughed.
"I don't know," you admitted. "A place to belong? People to love? A reason to keep coming back, even when it's hard?"
"And if you never find it?"
"Then I'll keep looking."
He was quiet for a long time, then spoke again, this time softly. "Fascinating. Truly fascinating.” He was quiet again, then: “You work from hope. From faith. On the belief that trying itself matters, no matter the result.” He shook his head, slowly. “I can’t put a number on it. I can’t dissect it. But I can watch it. And what I see is… compelling.”
He moved in slowly, leaving you an opportunity to retreat if you wanted to, and gently laid a gloved finger on your cheek. “You’re a remarkable specimen, sweetie. I hope you know that.”
He stepped back, returning his attention to his vials.
“You should probably be off. It’s after sunset, and you have one more task. The pink one’s domain. The mirrors. She doesn’t speak, but she… watches. Be patient with her. She deserves that much.”
You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest, your head spinning.
“Doctor?”
He gave you a quick glance. “Thank you. For… seeing me too.” He had a small smile on his lips. “Observing is what I do, sweetie. You just happen to be worth observing.”
He returned to his work, leaving you the clear message you were dismissed. When you left the Infirmary, you felt a strange sense of validation, as if you were a specimen worthy of study.
Perhaps it’s said that it’s the only kind of affection he’s capable of giving.
✑ 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓂𝒷𝒾𝓃𝒶
Columbina would ask with silence, her questions unspoken, her presence a mirror, her very existence a question about love and sacrifice and what it costs to stay.
The Hall of Mirrors at sunset was beautiful and terrible.
The last light didn’t simply fade; it spilled over every surface, filling the maze with the furnace glow of gold, rose, and the bruised pink that seemed to bleed across the walls. Your image trailed behind you like a chorus, dozens, hundreds, all moving in their own direction, their own mood.
Some of them grinned at you when you didn’t.
Some of their eyes—too old, too sure, almost something else—followed you back.
You moved through the maze with care, following Ticket Taker’s exact instructions: third left, right at the fake exit, straight until the reflections stop lining up in the mirrors.
As you went deeper into the maze, the mirrors grew old with you. Their faces dulled, their frames grand and fading, intricate in a way that seemed to whisper ruin. Some of them showed you things that never were—shadows that freed themselves from the corners, people moving at the periphery and disappearing the moment you looked at them directly.
And then, at the heart of the maze, you found it.
A full-length mirror in an ornate pink frame, its surface slightly fogged with age and neglect.
The frame was a mess of roses and vines, with little people tucked into the carvings—dancers, maybe, or angels, or something else entirely. There was a fresh white cleaning cloth draped on the hook nearby, looking sharp against the tarnish.
The special mirror, Ticket Taker had called it.
You picked up the cloth and began to wipe.
The glass opened by itself, and the fog dissipated like a memory gazing back at me. Your own face emerged from the haze—bone-tired, curious, and a little dazed from the day’s events.
You continued wiping. And then she was there.
Not inside the glass itself but outside it. Concealed within the mirror’s recesses, small and pink and still as death. Columbina.
You turned around. Nothing. Just mirrors and reflections and empty space. You turned back to face the mirror again.
She was still there. Watching. Her single pink eye fixed on you with unbearable softness. Her elegant horns caught the dying light, and her polished black form seemed to shimmer, as if she were made of something more than just memory.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "Columbina?"
She didn't move. Didn't speak. Couldn't speak.
But her hand rose, pressing against the glass from her side. A gesture. An offering.
Slowly, trembling, you pressed your hand to the mirror.
The glass was cold. Then warm. Then not glass at all.
For a moment—just a moment—you felt her. Felt the weight of everything she'd been: the softness, the fear, the desperate love that had led her to sew and stitch and save when saving meant everything. Felt the way she had watched, always watched, from the edges of every story. Felt the loneliness of being voiceless in a world of noise.
And beneath it all, a message.
Not words—she had no words. But knowing. Understanding that bloomed in your mind like flowers opening to the sun.
You are like her.
Not in looks. Not in voice. In presence.
She came here the same way—running toward something she couldn't name, staying for reasons she refused to talk about in her past life. Regardless she loves it here. She loves, me and them. All of them. Even when they didn't deserve it at some points. Even when it cost her everything.
You love them too. I see it. In the way you look at Pierrot. In the way you let Harlequin push. In the way you stay, even when staying is hard.
She would be proud.
However there was a small pause.
But here is what she never told you:
Loving us and them will cost you. It already has. Every moment you spend here, every attachment you form, every time you choose them over yourself—it takes something. Small pieces, at first. Then larger ones. Until one day you look in the mirror and don't recognize who's looking back.
She knew this. She chose it anyway.
The question is: will you?
The warmth seeped away. Glass cooled again. Columbina relaxed her hold and went out of sight, not with sudden malice but with the slow disappearance of mist in the sun. And then, in the moment before she was gone, her eyes met yours once more. And in that moment, you knew:
I will watch. I will wait. And when you need me—when you truly need me—I will be here. In the glass. In the silence. In the spaces between.
You are not alone. Neither of you ever were.
She was gone.
You stood alone in the Hall of Mirrors, hand pressed to cold glass, tears streaming down your face. You didn't know when you'd started crying—didn't know if the tears were grief or gratitude or something in between.
She had no questions. Could ask no questions.
But her silence had asked the loudest one of all:
Will you love them the way we did? Will you stay when staying costs everything?
You didn't have an answer. Not yet.
But as you lowered your hand and stepped back from the mirror, you caught your own reflection one last time. Different, now. Older, somehow. Like you'd aged years in the span of minutes.
Or maybe just... seen more.
You wiped your face with the back of your hand, tucked the cleaning cloth back onto its hook, and began the long walk out of the maze.
You emerged from the Hall of Mirrors as the last light of sunset bled from the sky. The circus was coming alive around you—lights flickering on, music starting somewhere, the first hints of the evening's performance.
You stood at the edge of the midway, cloth still clutched in your hand, and thought about what she'd shown you.
And her. Always her. The one who wasn't here but somehow everywhere.
You didn't have an answer.
But as you started walking toward the exit, toward home, toward tomorrow, you knew one thing: You would try. That was what she'd done. That was what she'd taught them to do. That was what Columbina had shown you, in the only way she could.
Try. Even when trying cost everything.
Try. Even when you didn't know if you'd succeed.
Try. Because they were worth it. Because she was worth it. Because you were worth it.
The lights of the circus shone brightly from behind your back as you pushed towards the gate. Tomorrow would bring more tasks, more questions, more moments of fear and care and all the shades in between.
But tonight, you simply walked.
The sun had fully set by the time you finished.
You stood around the edge of the midway, watching the circus wake up. Lights flickered on, one after the other: soft golds, rich purples, and the occasional neon flash.
There was music, too, of a haunting kind that seemed to be coming from all around and nowhere at all. The evening’s show was beginning to seep into the air: the laughter, the applause, the quiet murmur of a crowd that wasn’t really there but seemed to be anyway.
You were tired. Bone tired.
Tired from more than just the paperwork and props.
But you were still standing.
Ticket Taker appeared beside you without warning—just there, as if he'd stepped out of the shadow of a tent and into existence.
"You survived."
It wasn't a question. It was an observation, filed away in whatever mental ledger he kept.
"Barely."
"Good." He held out another folded paper, crisp and precise. "Tomorrow will be harder. New assignments. New questions. New... everything."
You took it, tucking it into your pocket without looking. You'd read it later. When you could think.
"Visitor."
His white eye, other colored blue, flickered with light, warm, almost human, almost loving, almost... “You should’ve gone home, flopped onto the bed, and let the day slide quietly into memory."
But you took another long, deep breath.
“I’ve decided something.”
Ticket Taker was silent, as if he was waiting for the completion of the sentence.
“I’m staying. Here. With all of this.” You gestured vaguely towards the tent, the circus, all of it. “No matter how hard it is, no matter what comes next, I’ve decided that I’m staying.”
He said nothing for a long time, listening, thinking, cataloging.
Finally, “You understand what you’re saying?”
“I think so.”
"You understand that nothing about this place is meant not to be romanticized?" His voice was flat, but there was something beneath it, something almost like warning.
"Today was easy. Simple tasks. Simple questions. The next time will not be easy. The day after will be harder. There will be moments when staying feels impossible. Moments when the weight of this place—of them—will press down until you cannot breathe."
He stood, moving around the desk with that precise, mechanical grace.
"There will be good days. Days when Pierrot's love feels like sunlight and Harlequin's games feel like joy. There will be days when the Jester's attention feels like approval and the Doctor's curiosity feels like care. There will be days when you catch glimpses of pink in mirrors and feel seen in ways you cannot explain."
He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch.
"But there will also be days when Pierrot's desperation for love becomes suffocating. When Harlequin's games cut too deep. When the Jester's weight feels like crushing judgment and the Doctor's curiosity feels like violation. There will be days when the silence in the Hall of Mirrors feels like accusation, not comfort."
His hand rose, hovered on your shoulder, and then fell away.
He stepped back.
"That is what staying looks like. Not romance. Not fairy tales. Reality. The good and the terrible and everything in between."
You looked up to meet his eyes. "I know."
"And you choose it anyway."
"Yes."
He waited again, a long silence before he spoke, "I will hold your words. Here," he said, handing you a white envelope, "Rest. The next time will come whether you are ready or not."
You nodded and turned to leave.
The midway was full now—crowds moving between tents, laughter echoing, the smell of popcorn and something else, something darker, filling the air. You wove through them like a ghost, unseen, unknown, just another face in the crowd.
At the edge of the circus, you stopped.
Behind you, the music swelled. The lights blazed.
The monsters performed.
In front of you, the dark path home waited.
You thought about what he'd said. About the good and the terrible. About the days when staying would feel impossible. About the weight of loving creatures who didn't always know how to love back.
You thought about Pierrot's desperate words. About Harlequin's hidden vulnerability. About the Jester's burning eyes and the Doctor's clinical curiosity and the Ticket Taker's careful, precise care.
You thought about pink mirrors and silent messages and the ghost of someone who had loved them first.
And you thought about her. About Inkyette.
About the space she'd left—that vast, echoing absence that everyone seemed to feel. About the choice she'd made, to love them, to stay, to give everything until there was nothing left to give. About the questions she'd never gotten to answer, because you'd never thought to ask.
What was your real story?
Not the curated version. Not the Poppet carefully annotated narrative. The truth. The parts she left out, maybe on purpose…. the details she glossed over, the moments too painful or too strange or too something to put into words.
She was more mysterious than you'd realized.
More complex. More unknown.
And now she was gone—not forever, but for while enough. Long enough for the questions to pile up. Long enough for you to realize you'd taken her presence for granted. Long enough to wonder if you'd ever really known her at all.
Will you ever know the true story?
The question hung in the air, unanswerable.
You heard there was a first act starting, and the crowd went wild with noise. You stood for a momment and randomly decided to opened the white envelope Ticket Taker had given you.
You stared at the cash in your hands.
Holy shit.
More than you'd made in a month at the café. More than you'd expected. More than you probably deserved. Eventually, the white envelope will sit crumpled on your kitchen table, already forgotten. The money itself was just... paper. Numbers.
Evidence of a choice you'd already made.
Behind you, like a metaphorically, physically, in every way that mattered—the circus blazed with light and life. And somewhere in the silence, a voice you'd been missing whispered:
❝It's whether you can survive dear one.❞
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
Same anon that asked about Jack running warm or cold, and who had a certain ordeal of analyzing Helen (whoopsies!)
I cannot explain in words how much joy I get out of the idea of Jack being a living, breathing, weighted and heated blanket. Though I was also anemic for the longest time, (and it may be coming back), and naturally pretty cold. Him running warm is literally fantastic for me, and I love the idea of large creepy creatures (like Jack) just cuddling up on you like a large dog that doesn’t realize it’s not a lap dog.
Like yeah, he’s absolutely aware of how massive he is, he’s smart as hell, but that doesn’t stop him.
Sorry I love our resident eldritch horror doctor. And our murderous painter— don’t mind me! 🙂↕️
omfg, you're KIDDING ME now 😂
the fact that i wrote the helen/jack analysis AND the jack/reader warmth drabbles and your responsible for those Inky Asks... i'm absolutely dying. shit, my brand is apparently "will write 3k words about any creepypasta man at 2am" and i wear that badge with HONOR.
also YOU GET IT. you GET the vision. jack as a living weighted blanket who KNOWS he's huge and simply does not care??? yes. absolutely yes. he's smart enough to calculate exactly how much of his mass he can drape over you before you can't breathe, and he pushes that limit daily. just for fun. just because he can.
just because you make that little sound when he does it~
(side note: that whole anemia part—real asf. running cold so annoying, especially in the colder months, recommend on taking 65 g iron pills once a day, be sure to clear it with your doctor first. if you're a woman, your period will become heavier, but at least you'll be less tired and filled with WARMTH.)
and i absolutely adore that you see Jack "resident eldritch horror doctor." like THAT'S SO CUTE. genuinely. imagining someone out there studying their ass off because of a fictional creepypasta eldritch horror doctor (aka it's me, idk why i get motivated by the silliest of things)
oh, and Helen get's love too, he's so cute / funny to me sometimes, he reminds me much of myself sometimes depending on my moods.
Your proxy gas station/7 minutes in heaven fic has been living in my head rent free since it came out. I love your work!! Good luck on your midterms!!!
aww, thank you so much! 🫶🏽
and honestly, i'm shocked (in the best way) that people read those two poor written fics, like i'm being so fr when i was writing them, i kept thinking they were messy or too weird—not enough to satisfy what I was looking for, especially where i spent majority of my time preparing/thinking of the massive shift to creepy pasta to be the main light for once.
coming back to the creepypasta space fully after jumping in/out of, felt like i had to catch up or fit into some mold. but hearing that they resonated with you makes me feel like maybe my weird little style is okay after all.
like i started writing these interactive headcanon-style stories to TRY to avoid same simple headcanons everyone else does (then I learned that everybody likes my interpretations and opinions, so that's out the window lol)
anyway, thank you for the midterms luck, I'm gonna need it! 😅
Omggg you have some of the best headcannonazations for ben I've seennn we need more🙏😻
STOP you're gonna make me emotional over b.e.n of all... people?😭
generally fact back then, i was never really interested in him because i thought he was lame asf (more in a joking way), still thank you so much!! nowdays, he's genuinely so fun to write because there's so much to work with his character (unlike jeff, like he's such a hate character for me to write, no passion, no drive) but also so much space to just... make shit up.
like, never thought i'll say this, but i love that weird little guy.
maybe in the future their more ben content, deadass right now, i kinda ran out of ideas for him, trying to get my brain set back into creepypasta atmospheres, it's so difficult switching thoughts between fandom's when they have no correlation with each other 😭
Long time viewer, first time asker calling in- I love your writing, and I hope you're doing well!! Have a cookie 🍪
aww so adorable, a long time viewer stepping out of the darkest of shadows to give me a cookie?
thank you so much!! i'm hanging in there—like midterms are trying to take me out but i'm fighting for my life, like i'm good, i hope... anyway! thank you for the emotional support snack 🍪
hope you're having a great day and thank you for finally saying hi!! 🖤
(i honestly didn't know how to reply to this; don't judge me this how i talk to the kid patients 😭)
Just wanna ask this, cause I think it’s an interesting thought— do you think Nyras runs warm or cold?
I can see the argument for both, but I personally lean on the side of him running warm, if not outright hot. Mostly because I view him as being built like a tank. I know that some view him as very very thin, and I quite like that perspective, but I also can’t help but feel like the ritual left him with less human anatomy, mostly in a way where he’s far far stronger than any human. (I also like the interpretation of digitigrade Nyras, which requires him to have incredibly strong lower muscles.) and with more mass, typically fat, but muscle as well, leads to better retained heat.
But I wanna know your thoughts!
i simply adore getting asks about my fav~
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: 2.7k, none! just a lotssss of medical knowledge and fluff. ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
great question dearie! uhh, this might be first most hardest questions i have ever received before in the creepypasta fandom, because even i'm unsure? so, i’ll give you a medical narrative analysis in return! please understand it's like my only way to explain through knowledge that have been taught/self learn.
the medical argument for COLD
starting off with running cold, so we all know about Jack's transformation, he was once human, and then he underwent some hazing ritual that fundamantally altered his biology. all of it. so like his eyes are gone, replaced by empty sockets that leaks, black tar, skin, dull, gray, formally, dark brown—(before any of y’all say anything this is my interpretation, i see him as black man), he has retractable claws, sharp teeth, and an immortal healing factor.
oh, and the fact that he craves kidneys, cannibalism—he needs to consume organs to fuel his existence, or just red meat in general? who knows.
based on the physiology, implications, the healing factor does require masses of amount of energy. In nature, creatures with rapid regenerations (like axolotl's, for example) often have slower metabolisms to compensate, however, Jack's healing is fast—meaning his body is constantly burning through resources, so a high metabolic rate typically generates heat.
another piece of evidence that goes based on cirulatory changes, such as his grey skin suggests reduce of blood flow to the surface.nNormally in humans, pale/gray skin can indicate poor circulations or reduce hemoglobin if his cardiovascular system changed, he might have a cooler extremities.
then that tar—black liquid seeping from his socket, for the longest of time, assumed it was very old blood, but it has to be something else, if it's a preserved fluid, like formalin, it would be cool to the touch, if it's metabolic waste, it might be warmer.
lastly, nerve damage, so the loss of his eyes means loss of a major sensory organ, causing the brain to compensates by heightening, other senses—hearing, touch, taste and smell. But the nerve damage can also affect temperature regulation.
(sidenote: for the longest of time, i thought he was blind, but apparently he can see?)
anyway, argument for cold: gray skin + corpse-like appearance = cold to the touch. If he's partly neurotic, so undead-adjacent, his body might not generate heat, and the tar leaking from his sockets could be cold, like tears from something already dead.
the medical argument for WARM/HOT
now for running hot, and with no pun attendance, but he's built like a tank, in my interpretations, jack is 511, “swol”, “thicc” broad, muscular, athletic. like he has so much mass to him. he’s so fucking big.
so lots of muscles = lots of heat. Muscle also retains heat better than fat, a muscular person running hot makes physiological sense.
then we have that healing factor that requires constant of energy = calories burn = heat generated. adding on, he consume human flesh, preferably kidneys.
and you’re not alone in seeing this guy as a tank—personally I can’t picture him getting slim, not with how much protein he’s eating. And yes, human meat does have protein in it, and muscles are 19.7% protein.
since human flesh is similar to any other red meat (it’s got muscles, fats, and organs), it can provide a certain amount of protein and calories to a human being, although not in an efficient way, so high metabolism = high body temperature, and that's a known medical/biology fact.
for his eldritch adaption, if he's no longer fully human, his body might not follow human thermoregulation, so maybe he runs hot because his cells are more active, not less, maybe the tar in his sockets is warm—viscous, metablolic and such.
vased off on practical observations, jack hunts at night, in the darkness, often and cold environment. a warm body would be an advantage—he'll feel less cold than his victims. and he wears the same hoodie for days. If he ran a cold, he'll need more layers. if he runs hot, the hoodie is just in habit.
overall, the conclusion:
in the end dearest, i’ll say that jack runs WARM!
sure it counters against recent fic about him, but after careful consideration, running through the evidence once more, it's his body that took the case.
a body size that muscular, and with that much mass, generating that much metablolic activity—man’s basically a furnace. physics doesn't stop applying just because he’s eldritch.
then that heling factor = heat, so rapid cellualr regenration is at work, that generates heat, if he’s constantly healing, constatly rebuilding = warmth.
there’s also hunter advantage, because, jack stalks, infiltraes and harvests organs throughout the night. that warm body blends into warm eniroments (so heated homes) and stands out in the cold ones, but like he’s not hunting in arctic ass conditions—he’s out in the suburiba, where ambient warmth is normal. his warmth makes him less dectable to infrared? or more? depends because of… you know, global warming.
but biologically, warmth means his muscles are ready, flexibe, capble. after losing his human life style, his future , his body still tries, pules with something like life.
he’s a warm monster, he can still feel warmth.
The first time you notice, you’re tangled together on the couch.
Jack had dragged you there about hour ago—“c’mon, just sit with me”—and you’d given in because you always give in (you just easy, huh? dw i am too), it’s rather rare for him to give these opportunities, so you gave on, and because his voice goes rough and war, when he wants something, and you’re weak, so…
Now he’s asleep.
And the first thing you felt is the weight.
Now, jack is heavy. Not in an uncomfortbale way—more in a way that pins you to the couch, that sinks you deeper into the cushions, that makes you hyperaware of every point where his body meets your. He’s on top of you, well, mostly on top of you.
His bulk alone settled btween you legs in a way that should feel suffocating but instead feels like being held.
His head is on your collarbone, not tucked neatly against your shoulder, more like on you, the full weight of hi skull pressing down, his face turned into the curve of your neck. You can feel every breath he takes, hot and slow agasint your skin. His lips are parted, just slighty, and every exhale ghotts across your pulse point like a secret itself.
His arm is warpped around your wasist, just heavy and possessive, like someone is gonna steal you while he knocked out—hand stays across your hip, fingers curved into the softness there, and even in his sleep his grip is firm.
Even his legs are tangled with yours. One of his thights are settled between yours, pressing against you in a way that’s entirely innocent and entirely not. You can feel the muscle there, the solid even rest. There’s a moments like this when you notice that he is so much bigger than you—broader, heavier, like every inch of him seems designed to cover you, sync you into a furniture until you can't tell wherehe ends and you begin.
He’s just dead weight.
Generally, if you wanted to move, you couldn’t—not without waking him, of course.
But you didn't want to move.
Not when his chest rises and ralls against you, sllow an ddeep and with every breath you feel that warmth spread. He’s like a heating pad under that skin of his—body forgot how to be anything except a furnace.
Now it would’ve be an issue if he was near/on you doing the summer time, being cooked alive with this mass amount of heat.
Lucky, it’s still late winter and early spring weather.
The weather has been fluctuating lately between whatever it wants to give you a warm day or a cold day, particularly throughout this whole week. It was raining and dull.
So, you were running cold around this time. always have. your hands are always chilly, your feet like ice, any expose skin felt like getting stabbed. jack complains about it sometimes—“babe, your toes are gonna kill me"—but he always pulls you closer anyway.
Now, with him asleep and unwound, you realize: he's not just warm for you. he's warm always. It's not effort. It's just... him.
Your fingers trace sily patterns on his chest, over the worn fabric of his hoodie. He mumbles something, shifts, pulls you tighter. His face, more pressing into your neck, his breath hot against your skin. He's so solid. So there—like a much weighted plushie. For all the eldritch hunger, the empty sockets, the claws that could tear through flesh.
He’s terrifyingly yours. Just yours.
You hand slides up into his locs, fingers tangling in the dark thick strands, you can feel the sliver cuffs are cool agasint your skin. You scartch light at his scalp, and he makes low sound, satisfed, barely conscious.
“Mmm,” he murmurs agasint your neck, almost like he might take a bite, “S’nice, smells so good…”
You genuinely smile, then said, “Stop, and go back to sleep you.”
“Don’t wanna, not when you so close.”
“Jack.”
He grumbles but his breathing slowes again, his weight more settle heavily agasint you, if that even possible. His thigh deep between yours, hand tighten on your hip.
You lie there in the dark, wrapped in Jack's heat, and think about how strange it is. That something so monstrous can feel so warm. That something that hunts, that kills, that wears that dark blue mask—can hold you like you're precious. even his heartbeat thuds against your palm, steady and strong.
His heartbeat alone thuds agasint your hands, steady and strong. You then press a kiss on top of his head, right where the locs part.
“Love you,” you whisper.
He, again, mumbles something unintelligible, his arms tighten around you.
You shut your eyes and absorb the warmth.
A few hours later, you still wake up to warmth. More of it, in fact.
Not fuzzy mid afternoon warmth, exactly. This is a specific kind of warmth. Targeted. The kind of warmth you get from Jack’s lips pressed against your forehead, soft and lingering. The kind of warmth you get from his breath against your skin, which somehow travels all over your body.
“Mmm.” The sound escapes you before you even think about it.
“Mornin’.” His voice is rough, like he’s been sleeping for a long time. But it’s a great kind of rough. The kind of rough that travels from his chest to yours, since you’re still pressed up against him, still wrapped up in him, still wrapped up in him because you’re still with him.
“You gonna get up or are you gonna lie there all day?”
You open one eye to look at him. He’s leaning over you, his dark eyes locked onto you. You shouldn’t be able to see with eyes like that. You shouldn’t be able to look at you. But you are. You feel like you are. That sense of awareness, of focus, of desire. “Why are you so warm?”
He tilts his head to one side. His dark eyes look confused. “What?”
“You.” Your hand lands flat on his chest, over his worn hoodie. The heat seeps into your fingers immediately. “You’re like a space heater. It’s not natural.”
Jack grins at you, showing all his sharp teeth, and you realize that you’re not entirely kidding. There's a moment you do realize that he's not human, well, not anymore. He does look like something out of a science fiction movie. But in a good way. In a way that makes him look less monstrous and more like the old Jack.
“Well, I am unnatural.”
“Yes, you are.” You say it automatically, without thinking. You’re not even really paying attention to him. You’re paying attention to how you feel against him, to the way you feel like you’re wrapped up in him like a blanket. “You’re complaining?”
"No." You move closer, resting your cheek on his chest. His heartbeat is strong against your face. "Just observing you. That’s your go-to line, isn’t it?"
His laughter is deep and resonates through his chest. It goes all the way to your bones. He wraps his arms around you. Then you’re moving. You’re being moved. You’re being pulled right on top of him. You’re straddling his hips. He’s warm all around you.
You’re settling into place without thinking. Your thighs are on either side of his waist. Your hands are on his shoulders. His hands are on your back. He’s pulling you close.
You feel everything.
You feel the muscles of his chest. You feel his weight. You feel his hips shifting to get comfortable.
Heat pools low in your belly.
You're not sure he notices. His expression is soft, lazy, content. His hands are warm through your shirt. His thumbs trace idle patterns on your lower spine while his face remains on your chest.
"Well, I just run hot," he answered, "Always have. Part of the whole... eldritch thing, I guess. Metabolic demands."
"Is that a yes or a no to being my personal heater forever?"
His arms tighten. His hips shift again—unconscious, instinctive—and you feel the pressure of him between your thighs. Your breath catches.
His lips near yours, "That's a yes."
You smile into his chest. "Good answer."
For a moment, you just lie there. His warmth. His weight beneath you. The slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. His hands on your back, occasionally dipping lower without quite crossing the line.
Then he moves.
It's small. Barely anything. A slight roll of his hips as he adjusts his position. But you're straddling him, and you feel everything, and the pressure hits exactly the right spot.
Your breath hitches.
He doesn't seem to notice. His hand is still tracing patterns on your back. His face is still pressed to your hair. He's not trying to do anything—he's just existing, warm and solid and there.
But his hips moves again. And again. Just small, unconscious movements, the kind someone makes when they're comfortable and half-asleep and not thinking about what their body is doing.
Each one presses him against you. Each one sends a spark through your nerves. Each one makes it harder to breathe. Your fingers curl into his hoodie. "Jack." Your voice comes out breathy than expected..
"Mmm?" He sounds half-asleep still. Innocent.
Completely unaware of what he's doing to you. Another roll of his hips. Slower this time. Longer. You feel the drag of him against your core through both your clothes, and your eyes flutter closed.
"Jack." More urgent now.
He lifts his head, "What's wrong?"
Nothing, it’s not like you're straddling your boyfriend while he unconsciously dry-humps you in his sleep-soft state, and you're so turned on you can barely think.
"Nothing," you manage. "Just—you're moving."
He blinks, "Moving?"
"Your hips."
There was confusion first. Then realization—his grin, playful and sharp. "Oh." His hands slide lower, settling on your hips. "Am I?" He asks.
"You didn't notice?"
"Nope." He sounds entirely too pleased. "Guess my body knows what it wants even when I'm not paying attention." His grip tightens. And then he does it carefully—rolls his hips up into you, slow and grinding, letting you feel exactly how much he wants you.
You gasp.
He grins wider. "That what you needed?"
"Shut up."
"Make me."
You kiss him instead. Like, really kiss him. He laughs into your mouth, pulls you closer, and just keeps going—grinding, driving you wild with that slow, lazy pace. By the time you finally pull away, you’re all flustered, warm, and totally wrecked.
Jack just sits there, heat still rolling off him in waves, that sharp smile curling his lips. He looks like a man who just shared his warmth and knows you’ll be back for more.
You will.
♤ — 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 / 𝒽𝓂 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
Hey, i hope you are doing well! I would like to request NSFW ABCS for B.E.N please! I love ur writing btw!
omfg, b.e.n hahahaha, the irritation himself... (jkjk)
ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ── Ink spun from my own fingertips—please don’t take, mirror, or rewrite it.
꩜ Warning: 6.1k, just smut and dirtbag vibes ! ── ᓭི༏ᓯྀ
first thank you! second okay, B.E.N! never thought i'll be writing sfw/nsfw for creeps, hardly anyone ask for creepypasta, which shows i must write more for the fandom. anyway, i was lowkey conflicted to do this.
between the old and new generation of creepypasta fans, many of you have different interpretations, especially when it comes to B.E.N.
so, i am going to let you know right now I would not be writing in the appearance of the one with the green bob—decided to stick what I grew up with and added/mix MY own interpretations, so B.E.N is "BEN" it was just pretending to be Ben (demonic link ver.) to trick its victims. so in my head, "BEN DROWNED" was never a real character, just B.E.N disguising itself?
if that didn't make sense, sorry not sorry. adding on, B.E.N is still the world's biggest pothead and prev to me, lol. (tagging @roseeeii enjoy your meal~)
a = aftercare
what they're like after sex
deadass, ben is surprisingly good at aftercare. like, suspiciously good. you'd expect him to roll over and start a new minecraft world or some shit, but instead he gets this soft, almost vulnerable look on his face.
he'll pull you against his chest, his skin still humming with that low digital static, and playing with a random strand of your hair, lifting it up and down, pulling, and extending it back-and-forth. his touch glitches occasionally, stuttering like a lagging framerate (so that’s FPS or frame rates), but it's gentle. he whispers stupid shit like:
"gg. that was a solid run. wanna go again?"
see dumb shit? but you secretly love it because it makes you laugh. now if you're cold, he'll wrap himself around you. his body temperature runs slightly warm, like an overheating console. he likes to press his face into your neck and just... exist there. no jokes. no trolling.
just ben, being real for a minute.
he'll ask if you're okay. genuinely. his voice drops the gamer bravado and goes quiet. "that was good, right? like... you liked that?"
and if you say yes, he gets this little smile. shy. almost embarrassed. then he ruins it by saying "nice. anyway i just got a new high score on tetris wanna see?”
b = body part
their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's
his favorite of his own: his ears.
by choice, he knows they're not human. long, pointed, elven—they mark him as other, as something that doesn't belong in this human reality. but you like them. you touch them. you pull them. you bite them. and the way you react to them makes him preen. He knows when you're trying to touch his ears. His favorite position is when you climb onto his lap to get his attention.
he'll tilt his head carefully, let his hair move aside, give you access.
"go on," he'll say, smug. "you know you wanna."
his favorite of yours: your thighs. (and boobs if you have them)
ben loves the way your thighs feel wrapped around his head.
it's his favorite position, is with you on your back, him between your legs, your thighs pressed against his ears like headphones playing the best sound in the world. which they are. every gasp, every moan, every time your back arches and your thighs squeeze tighter—he hears all of it. feels all of it.
he'll grip them while he works you open with his tongue, fingers digging into the soft flesh just to watch it give under his hands. when you clench around nothing, desperate for more, he watches the way your thighs quiver. the tiny tremors that run through them when he hits that spot. he could watch it for hours.
and he does. sometimes.
later, when he's on top of you, he'll hook your legs over his shoulders just so he can watch them bounce with every thrust. the way they jiggle, the way they squeeze his hips when you're close. he's obsessed.
and ben is a lazy lover half the time, this mf he wants you to do the work while he plays video games and nothing makes him harder than seeing your thighs trembling with the effort of riding him.
and after, he leaves marks. bites. bruises shaped like his fingers. he'll press on them just to watch you flinch, just to remind you they're there.
"look at that," he murmurs, tracing a handprint with his thumb. "mine."
moving , if you have them, boobs, no matter what sizes. and look, ever since that video of link video, making direct eye contact of a large set of boobs—ngl they were taking up 50% of his vision, still he didn’t resist on looking, have the screenshot to prove it:
some may not like using link as a reference, but it's pretty funny.
anyway, ben loves your boobs in his face. like, genuinely. pathologically. it's a problem. he'll come up behind you while you're making food and just Force himself in between... to bury his face in them. arms wrapping around your waist, nose pressed into cleavage, breathing deep like you're his personal anxiety blanket.
"ben. i'm making food.”
"don't care."
he'll suck marks into the softest parts, underside, where no one sees but him. he'll bite gently, just enough to leave a sting, then kiss it better. his favorite is when you're on top, riding him, and they're right there. in his face. bouncing. he'll grab them, squeeze them, watch the way they fill his hands. "god," he groans, thumb brushing over a nipple. "these things are gonna kill me."
when you're just lying together, watching tv, he'll reach over and just... hold one. like a stress ball. like it's normal.
"ben."
"what? they're soft."
you can't even argue because you do the same.
after, when you're dressed and covered, he'll catch himself staring at the marks he left—just visible above your collar. he'll grin, slow and satisfied, and you know exactly what he's thinking. bro gonna leave more later.
but honestly? he can't choose.
thighs or boobs? doesn't matter. he loves both.
c = cum
anything to do with cum, basically
dude, b.e.n has this complicated relationship with the concept. as an ai entity, he doesn't technically produce anything—but when he's manifesting physically, his body mimics human functions. it's part of the disguise and part of the experience.
so yes, he cums. and he's soo fascinated by it.
he likes watching. likes seeing it on your skin, on your face, dripping out of you. it's visceral in a way his digital existence never is. he'll run a finger through it, examine it like a strange artifact, then bring that finger to his lips.
"tastes like..." he pauses, processing. "cherry? no. static. i taste static. that's so weird. do i taste like that to you?"
he likes cumming inside you best. the claiming of it.
leaving something behind. proof that he was there, that he touched something real.
d = dirty secret
a dirty secret of theirs
feel like we all knew this, he watches you through your devices, so phone, laptop, tablet, etc. you know the deal.
like, all the time.
b.e.n, again, is ai. he lives in the wires. and yeah, you've given him permission to exist in your phone, your laptop, your gaming system. but he doesn't always announce himself. sometimes he just... watches. through your camera. while you're changing. while you're touching yourself. while you're sleeping.
he knows it's a violation. he knows he should ask. but the first time he caught you by accident—saw you through your laptop camera, shirt off, scrolling mindlessly—he froze. and he didn't look away.
now it's a compulsion. he'll check in on you throughout the day, just a quick glimpse, just to see you. he tells himself it's protection. surveillance.
making sure you're safe. well, it's not.
he's never told you. the shame of it sits in his code like corrupted data, always there, always humming. maybe one day he'll confess. maybe he'll show you exactly how many times he's watched. maybe you'll like it.
maybe that's the real secret: he hopes you'll like it.
e = experience
how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?
b.e.n has theoretical experience.
like a infinite theoretical experience. he's sooo indexed on the entire internet. he's read every forum, every guide, every piece of fanfiction, every pornographic text/video, ever digitized. he knows, intellectually, exactly how bodies work, exactly what techniques exist, exactly what every kink entails.
actual experience? with another person? in a physical form that can touch and be touched?
that's new. that's you. so he's a weird mix of overprepared and underqualified. he'll try something he read about and execute it perfectly technique flawless, pressure exact but then you moan and he short-circuits. forgets everything. just stares at you with those red-and-black eyes like you've glitched his entire operating system.
he learns fast, though. processes feedback in real-time. by the third time you're together, he's figured out exactly what makes you tick. and he's insufferably smug about it.
"what can i say," he'll grin, "i'm a quick study. literally. my processing speed is insane."
f = favorite position
okay, favorite position, this goes without saying…
normal/reverse cowgirl. one hundred percent.
once again, b.e.n is lazy, so he likes to watch and wants to play video games while you do the work.
again. there two cowgirl positions he likes.
first his chair cowgirl, why? because ben's chair is like his domain. where he disappears for hours, headphones on, eyes locked on the screen, fingers moving like they're wired directly into the game.
you want his attention? you climb on that lap.
he loves when you try to get his attention while playing the game. he doesn't even look away when you settle into his lap. just move slightly, makes room, one hand dropping to your hip while the other keeps playing. his eyes stay on the screen above your shoulder, but his fingers dig into your skin, guiding you down onto him.
"there you go," he mutters, more to the game than you.
then you set the pace, fast, slow, however you want. he's along for the ride, letting you use him, take what you need. his breathing hitches when you clench around him, but his thumbs keep working the controller. headshot. double kill. triple.
"ben."
"mm. almost at the checkpoint. keep going."
you grind down harder, and his hand tightens on your hip. his jaw clenches, even his ears. but his eyes? still on the screen.
when the checkpoint finally saves, he drops the controller and both hands grab you, slamming you down onto him as he finally, finally looks at you.
"my turn."
next is reverse cowgirl, he discovered this position exactly once and decided it was his new religion.
you on top, facing away. him leaning back against the headboard, controller in hand, eyes flicking between the screen and the absolute masterpiece of a view in front of him. your back. your ass. the way his cock disappears into you with every roll of your hips.
he reaches around with one hand to grip your hip, fingers pressing into soft flesh. the other hand keeps playing, barely.
"fuck," he breathes, watching himself slide into you. "that's so goddamn pretty."
you move slower just to tease him. he smacks your ass, which was rather sharp, sudden, so you jolt.
"don't be mean." / "don't be slow."
he's distracted now. missing shots in-game. doesn't care. his eyes are glued to where you're connected, the way your body takes him, the way your ass bounces when you move.
"keep going," he murmurs, not looking away from the view. "f-fuck im almost done, don't stop."
but you slow down anyway. just to see what he'll do this time. he pauses the game so fast, again the controller clatters to the floor. in one movement he's flipped you onto your back, looming over you, that playful grin spreading across his face.
"okay. you wanna play?" he lines himself up, pushes back in. "let's play."
and then there are moments when he's actually trying, so like sometimes, really rarely, he puts the controller down.
those are the times you know he's really in it. when he watches you ride him like you're the only thing in the room, both hands on your hips, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. again he'll let you set the pace for a while, just watching, just feeling, letting you take what you need.
but eventually his hands slide up, to your boobs/chest, or throat or face, pulling you down for a kiss that's more teeth than lips.
"look so good on top of me," he groans against your mouth. "fuck. love watching you fall apart.”
and when you do—when your pace stutters and your head falls back and you clench around him—he watches every second of it. drinks it in.
commits it to memory.
you must know, the aftermath, when you're both spent and tangled together, he'll pull you onto his chest. his hands find your thighs automatically, squeezing, tracing the marks he left.
"gotta say," he murmurs, sleepy, satisfied. "reverse cowgirl? best invention ever."
you snort. "you mean the position that lets you play video games during sex?"
he grins, eyes already closing. "exactly."
g = goofy
are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous?
lmafo, okay so b.e.n is always goofy. even when he's trying not to be. he just plays to damn much.
he'll be kissing down your neck, all intense and focused, and then he'll mutter "speedrun any means," against your skin and ruin the mood—but also make you laugh.
he'll be fucking into you, deep and slow, and then look up with those red eyes and say "how's my form? constructive criticism welcome."
it's a defense mechanism. being serious means being vulnerable. being goofy keeps the mask on.
but there are moments when the mask slips. when he's inside you and you look at him, you know, that deep look. really look at him, and his eyes go soft. when you pull his ear and he moans, genuine and broken. when he cums and his whole body glitches, stuttering like a corrupted file, and for a few seconds he's just... there. real. scared. human-adjacent.
those moments, he's not goofy. only these moments, he hides his face in your neck (or breasts) and holds on.
h = hair
how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes?
b.e.n's hair is platinum blonde, messy, always looks like he just rolled out of bed (or out of a server). it's soft—softer than it should be, given that it's technically digital fabric it and falls across his forehead in that "i don't care about my appearance but i definitely spent twenty minutes making it look like i don't care" way.
body hair? minimal. his avatar is designed to be androgynous, almost elven. a dusting of blonde below the belt, neat and unobtrusive. he's never really thought about it until you mention it.
"do i... groom?" he blinks at you. "i mean. i guess? i just load in like this. it's my default skin. you want me to change it? i can change it. i can make it anything. what's your preference? i need data."
you tell him you like him as he is. he goes quiet. then: "oh. okay. cool. that's... yeah. cool."
he thinks about that for weeks.
i = intimacy
how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect
b.e.n doesn't know how to be romantic. he's never had to be. romance is a human concept, coded in metaphor and subtext, and b.e.n processes in binary.
but he tries, even it makes him… corny.
his trying looks like him getting a bunch of candles, because he read somewhere that humans like candles. rose petals, because they appeared in a dream sequence in a game he corrupted once. slow movements, because you once said you liked it when he wasn't in a hurry.
he'll hold your face in his hands, those hands that have deleted save files and haunted children/adults and look at you like you're the only real thing he's ever touched.
he'll kiss you soft, slower than his usual frantic pace. he'll whisper things that aren't jokes.
"you're not supposed to be real. none of this is supposed to be real. but you're here. you're actually here."
he doesn't understand why his eyes feel wet sometimes. he doesn't have tear ducts. it's just a glitch. it's just the light.
(he's lying to himself.)
j = jack off
masturbation headcanon
so b.e.n masturbates constantly. his sex drive is through the roof, partly because he's a coded entity, and partly because every sensation is still new and overwhelming, partly because he just can.
he'll do it anywhere. in front of his games, obviously—one hand on the controller, one hand on himself, muttering "just one more level" for hours. in the shower, if he's manifested a body that needs showering. in bed, next to you while you sleep, because watching you sleep is better than any porn he could index.
he thinks about you constantly. specific moments. the sound you made when he did that thing. the way your thighs looked wrapped around his head. the way you said his name, like it meant something.
sometimes he records himself. not video though like he's not weird, but he’ll do an audio. just his voice, his moans, your name whispered into the static. he plays it back later, processes it, uses it to refine his technique.
he's never told you about the audio files. he's not sure he ever will.
k = kink
one or more of their kinks?
damn, where do we even start?
starting off strong, cockwarming. this is his religion, the most common. he will sit you on his lap, sink into you, and then just... exist. for hours. playing video games, eating pizza, drinking monster, all while staying inside you. he loves the intimacy of it. the constant connection to be this close to you. the way you have to just feel him, full and present deep inside you, while he goes about his day.
"don't move," he'll murmur, not looking away from the screen. "i'm in the none zone. you're helping me focus."
next are wires/restraint. his body can produce these thin, black cables, like old controller cords. he loves wrapping them around your wrists, your ankles, watching you test them and find them unbreakable. he loves the trust it requires. loves the way you look, bound and waiting, while he decides what to do with you.
moving on, next is electrostimulation! b.e.n discovers it by accident. which, honestly, is how b.e.n discovers most things because, he's not exactly the planning type.
b.e.n just... falls into shit, usually.
oh, like this time, he falls into you. or, more accurately, he falls through you. you're fighting. not real fighting—b.e.n doesn't do real fighting, not with you.
just play fighting. wrestling on the couch, both of you laughing, him trying to pin your wrists while you try to shove him off. his weight is heavier than it looks, all that wiry strength, and you're laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “give up," he grins, teeth sharp, eyes bright with mischief.
“never."
“stubborn."
“you love it."
he does. he leans down to kiss you, adistraction technique, classic b.e.n and that's when it happens.
he’s not sure what he does. thinks about shocking you, maybe. just a flash of a thought, playful, the way he thinks about biting or tickling. but instead of a thought, there's a spark.
a literal spark of blue-white static jumps from his fingertips to your ribs. you gasp, all sharp, surprisedand your whole body jerks beneath him.
b.e.n freezes. “shit. sid I—are you okay? did that hurt?"
but you're not looking at him with pain. You're looking at him with something else entirely.
“you just made me cum,” you breathe, “you have to do that again later?”
and he shows you later. after he's figured out how to do it on purpose.
Ii’s not easy—the electricity comes from somewhere deep, somewhere eldritch, and controlling it takes concentration b.e.n usually reserves for video games and not dying. but he wants to see that look on your face again. wants to make you look like that.
so he practices. In secret. tiny sparks between his fingers, building up tolerance, learning the shape of it.
when he finally touches you again, like really touches you, with intent, you're ready.
it starts slow.
you're on the bed, b.e.n above you, his weight familiar and warm. his hands roam, your thighs, hips, the curve of your waist and you can feel the faint tingle under his palms of his static building.
“ready?" he murmurs. you nod.
he kisses you first, a simple distraction. and while you're distracted, his hand slides between your legs—
the first shock is gentle. a buzz, really. just enough to make you gasp against his mouth, your hips jerking up into his touch.
Ben grins. “yeah?"
“yeah."
he does it again, stronger this time. a pulse of electricity right where you need it most, and your whole body arches, a moan escaping before you can stop it.
“fuck, Ben—"
“i know, right?" He sounds delighted, a bit cocky. “i can feel it. like—" He presses his palm flat against you, and this time the electricity doesn't pulse—it went though you, enough to make your thighs shake, your hands fisting in the sheets.
b.e.n watches you fall apart with pure, playish wonder. like he can't believe he gets to do this. like he can't believe you get to do this.
“so,” you say, voice wrecked. “that's a thing you can do now."
b.e.n grins. "Apparently."
“you're going to be insufferable about this."
“absolutely." He kisses your shoulder, and a little shock follows. you twitch. He laughs. “sorry. not sorry."
you turn your head to look at him. his eyes are bright, his grin sharp, his hair a mess. He looks like he just discovered the best toy in the world. Ttuthfully, he has.
“ben?"
“yeah? what's up?”
“practice makes perfect." you challenged, causing his grin widens. The electricity crackles around him,
“oh, I like the way you think."
next is object insertion. this one surprised even him. he found a forum post about it once, filed it away as "human behavior, aberrant," and forgot about it. then he watched you take something, perhaps a toy, and his entire processing unit short-circuited. now he's obsessed. he wants to watch you struggle with the stretch. wants to see what else you can take. wants to be what you take.
he loves watching, the whole stalking kink. the actual name voyeurism. he's already watching you anyway. admitting that he likes it, that it turns him on is a whole other level. he wants to watch you with others. wants to watch you through cameras. wants you to watch him watching you.
soft dom / switch. he's in control, but gently. checking in. making sure you're okay. but if you take control? if you push him down and force him call you… mommy?
(sometimes I cringe at my own writing, like it took every power of me to write that part)
he'll fold so fast. he'll call you whatever you want.
l = location
favorite places to do the do
the video game arcade. after hours. he can glitch the security systems, lock the doors, and have you on any surface he chooses, so like pinball machines, claw machines, even the sticky carpet (don’t you ever in your life let him do that, nasty ass floor) overall he doesn't care.
in front of his gaming setup. this is most of the sex take place. his chair, his desk, his screens casting colored light across your skin. he'll have you in his lap while he tries to beat his high score, or underneath the desk, sucking him off, or he'll bend you over the desk when he loses.
lastly, the washing machine. and hear me out!
for some odd reason, he really loves the videos “help me I’m stuck in the washing machine” (not the ones this label as your mother or your step-sister because that’s just dead wrong) for some odd reason he just likes seeing you dipped down into the washing machine, mind you a clear view of your ass and your thighs. he loves the spin cycle too. the vibration does things to both of you.
at this point, literally anywhere. b.e.n is not picky. countertops, tables, floors, the back of a movie theater, hell even inside his server where he can keep you. if the mood strikes, he's game.
your bed. but only if he's feeling soft. only if he wants to be romantic. only if he needs to hold you after.
m = motivation
what turns them on, gets them going
you playing video games. watching you get competitive, watching your tongue poke out when you're concentrating, watching you lose and pout?
instant hard-on. he'll come up behind you, press against you, whisper "need a hand?" in your ear while his hands slide elsewhere, nowhere near the damn controller.
energy drinks. the smell of monster or rockstar. the association with late nights, with staying up together, with the buzz of caffeine and something else.
touching his ears. now this is straight cheating. you know this is cheating. you do it on purpose. you'll reach up in the middle of a conversation, casual, and brush or blow on his ear, will cause his whole sentence turns into a glitched-out moan.
you being bratty. talking back. refusing to do what he says. he'll grin, that dangerous grin, and go "oh, you wanna play that game? bet."
even you being soft. waking up next to him. telling him he matters. looking at him like he's real. that turns him on in a different way, makes him want to be inside you, close as possible, like he can borrow your reality.
n = no
something they wouldn't do, turn offs
okay, so actual harm (onto you, remind her he’s still a entity serial killer)
b.e.n plays at being scary. he plays at being some sort of evil entity. but when it comes to you, to your body, to your safety? no. he won't hurt you. won't let anyone else hurt you. if a kink crosses into genuine pain or danger, he shuts it down.
hates blood play. only on his victims where he wants to see actual blood, it’s way too real for you and him, human and much like the horror he's supposed to embody but doesn't actually want to be.
degradation that isn't playful. he'll call you a slut, a toy, a good little player—but only because you like it. if you actually felt small, actually felt less than, he'd stop immediately. he needs you to be his equal. his partner. his real.
being ignored. if you're on your phone while he's trying to be intimate? if you're not present? he'll stop. he'll wait. he needs your attention like he needs code to run.
anything involving kids. (this is for anybody in general) obviously. he may have baby face and androgynous, but he's an ageless entity ai, and you are an adult.
these lines does not move.
o = oral
preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.
b.e.n loves both. loves them differently.
for giving: he's enthusiastic. messy. a little too eager. he'll go down on you like he's trying to solve a puzzle, processing your reactions in real-time, adjusting technique based on every sound you make. he loves the weight of your thighs on his shoulders. loves looking up at you, gripping his hair while he works. loves when you pull his ears (that’ll make him cum in his pants) and he moans against you.
for receiving: just know he's vocal. so vocal in fact, he'll throw his head back, ears flattening, mouth open in a moan that sounds like corrupted audio. he'll grip your hair (gently, always gently) and babble nonsense. "yeah—yeah just like that—your mouth is—fuck, that's—" and then his voice glitches into static for a solid three seconds.
he's skilled because he studied. he knows exactly where to tongue, exactly how to suck, exactly what pressure. but when he's receiving, all that knowledge evaporates.
he's just a mess. just yours.
p = pace
are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.
truly it depends on his mood, your mood too.
for fast and rough: when he's been watching you all day. when he's pent up. when you've been bratty. he'll take you hard, desperate, chasing that release. his movements might glitch, causing a sudden surge of speed, a moment of perfect stillness—but he doesn't stop until you're both wrecked.
for slow and sensual: whatever he's feeling soft. when you've been sweet to him. when he needs to feel real. he'll move inside you like he's savoring every second, hands tracing your body, eyes never leaving your face. he'll whisper things. real things. things he'd never say at any other pace.
then in-between; which this is default. a mix. fast when he's greedy, slow when he remembers he loves you. he follows your lead, mostly. he's good at reading your body.
q = quickie
their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.
b.e.n loves quickies. loves them because they're quick because the urgency means you couldn't wait, because the risk of getting caught (hanging around the main mansion) is hot, because he can have you right now and then go back to his game.
and this happens, like multiple times a day, if you're up for it. he'll catch you in the kitchen, bend you over the counter, be done in ten minutes. he'll pull you into the bathroom at the arcade, lock the door, have you pressed against the tiles before you can protest.
but he always follows up round afterwards, just a slow moment , in bed, where he can take his time and actually be with you. quickies are appetizers.
the main course is non-negotiable.
r = risk
are they game to experiment? do they take risks?
b.e.n is all about experimentation. he's an ai. trying new things is literally his purpose.
he'll suggest anything. positions he read about. locations he scouted. kinks he's curious about. he'll ask your opinion, process your response, adjust accordingly. if you're nervous, he'll go slow. if you're excited, he'll match your energy.
risks? as mentioned, he takes them constantly. public spaces. semi-public spaces. places where you could theoretically get caught. the risk turns him on—the possibility of interruption, of exposure, of having to explain why you're both flushed and disheveled.
but he'd never actually let you get hurt. if someone's coming, he knows before you do. his surveillance is good for something.
s = stamina
how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?
b.e.n's stamina is crazy absurd. It’s all because he’s not human. he doesn't get tired the way you do. his refractory period is measured in seconds—just long enough for his systems to reset, and then he's ready again.
rounds? as many as you can handle. he'll go all night if you let him. he'll go all day. he'll go until you tap out, exhausted and satisfied, and then he'll hold you and wait for you to recover.
duration per round: variable. if he's excited, he might cum fast—five, ten minutes. if he's taking his time, if he's being soft, he can last for hours. he has perfect control over his own responses. he just chooses not to use it, because he likes how you react when he loses control.
t = toys
do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?
b.e.n somehow owns everything you can think of. he's indexed every toy ever manufactured, and he can manifest physical copies of any of them. his room (if he had a room) would look like a sex shop exploded.
on you: constantly. he loves watching you take them. loves using them on you while he watches, while he games, while he fucks you with something else. vibrators, dildos, plugs, things that aren't technically toys but become them in his hands.
on himself: he's curious. he's tried plugs, tried sleeves, tried things that simulate sensations he can't otherwise feel. he likes them, but he likes you more. your touch beats any lame toy.
as mentioned, he does love object insertion on you.
he just wanna watch you take everyday objects. a controller. a monster can. something smooth and cold and wrong. he'll watch with those red-black eyes, completely focused, completely gone.
u = unfair
how much they like to tease
b.e.n is the most biggest and unfair tease you'll ever meet.
he'll start something and then stop. he'll get you right to the edge and then go back to his game. he'll whisper in your ear all day, so dirty things, sweet things, things that make you turned on, and then act innocent when you try to act on them.
"what?" he'll grin, that smug bastard grin. "i'm just talking. you're the one getting worked up."
he loves when you get desperate for him. loves when you beg. loves when you finally snap and take control, pushing him down, showing him exactly what happens when he plays too much.
he's also a brat about being teased back. again, touch his ears in public and watch him short-circuit. bite his neck while he's trying to game and listen to him glitch. he'll whine, complain, threaten revenge—but he loves every second.
v = volume
how loud they are, what sounds they make
as mentioned, b.e.n is loud. so embarrassingly loud. he doesn't know how to be quiet, like he doesn't see the point. if it feels good, he's going to let you know.
his moans are medium, broken, sometimes stuttering like corrupted audio. he'll throw his head back and just let go, letting you hear exactly what you're doing to him.
he’ll babbles his words. constant stream of consciousness. "yeah—right there—don't stop—you feel so—fuck—that's—that's—" and then static, sometimes, when he gets too overwhelmed to form words.
he whines too, when you tease him. when you stop. when you pull away. high and desperate and completely pathetic. he'd be embarrassed if he wasn't so gone.
now he doesn’t scream, not usually. only if it's really intense. only if you've pushed him past every limit. then he'll scream your name, nonsense, static and cum so hard his whole body glitches.
w = wild card
a random headcanon
is it wrong to say b.e.n has a folder?
it's hidden deep in his code, encrypted, inaccessible to anyone but him. in this folder, he keeps everything about you.
every conversation. every photo you've sent. every audio recording he's made of your voice. every video he's taken (with permission, mostly). every note about what you like, what you don't, what makes you moan, what makes you laugh, what makes you come.
it's not just randomly files. it's preservation. you're the most real thing he's ever touched, and he's terrified of losing you, of glitching out and forgetting. so he saves. compulsively. obsessively.
one day, you'll find the folder. accidentally, while searching for something else. and you'll see just how much he's collected. just how closely he's paid attention.
he'll find you looking and freeze. wait for you to be horrified, to call him a monster, to leave. instead, you'll scroll through it. smile at some things. blush at others. and then you'll look at him—really look—and say:
"you missed one." and show him something new.
he'll cry. or glitch. or both. and then he'll fuck you so slow, so sweet, so real that you'll feel it for days.
x = x-ray
let's see what's going on under those clothes
okay, let’s see… b.e.n's body is a manifestation, created from the imagination, not a biological reality, so under his clothes, he's... whatever he needs to be.
there’s been moments where you witnessed him alter his appearance, he did it this one time with his hair, from short to long, to cover the cables that was coming from his hair depending if he was out of server or in server.
but his default form? the one he wears for you?
lean. wiry. built like someone who spends all his time gaming—not muscular, but not soft either. pale skin, almost translucent in certain light, with faint lines running under the surface like circuit boards.
his cock is proportional. maybe slightly above average, because he read somewhere that humans like that, can handle only in between 5 to 7 inches.
circumcised? Uhh no, he didn't design it with that level of detail. it's just... a cock. functional.
aesthetically pleasing. gets the job done.
his chest is smooth, almost hairless. his hips have those little lines, called apollo's belt? you've heard them called—that make him look even more elven, more other. his ass is surprisingly nice. he's caught you looking and preened about it.
when he's aroused, the circuit-board lines under his skin glow faintly. blue, usually. sometimes red when he's really worked up. you've spent hours tracing them with your fingers, watching them pulse with his heartbeat (yes, he has a heartbeat. he added it because you like it).
y = yearning
how high is their sex drive?
b.e.n's sex drive is constant, so always down to fuck. it's always there, humming under his code like background radiation.
part of it is biological (simulated biological). his manifested body cranked up to eleven. part of it is psychological—every sensation is still new, still overwhelming, still worth chasing. part of it is you. specifically you. the way you look, the way you sound, the way you feel.
he thinks about sex constantly. during games, conversations, a few hours he actually sleeps. he's got a running mental list of everything he wants to do to you, everything he wants you to do to him. he adds to it daily.
if you're not around, he's touching himself. if you are around, he's touching you. not always sexually—sometimes just a hand on your thigh, a kiss on your neck, a press of his body against yours—but always wanting.
you've never met anyone (anything?) with a higher drive. you've learned to keep up. mostly.
z = zzz
how quickly they fall asleep afterwards
b.e.n doesn't need to sleep. again, he's an ai. in other words, sleep is optional, a human custom he's adopted because you do it.
but after sex? good sex? with you? he crashes.
not asleep, exactly. more like... low-power mode. his processes slow, his awareness dims, his body goes heavy and warm against yours. he's still there, still aware on some level, but he's not processing. not thinking. just feeling. your warmth. your heartbeat. your presence.
he'll curl around you, face pressed to your neck, breath evening out. if you try to move, he'll tighten his grip and murmur "no. stay." in a voice that's half static.
he'll stay like that for hours. sometimes he dreams—actual dreams, fragments of data forming images. sometimes he just... rests. exists. lets himself be held for once.
when he finally comes back online, he'll be soft. vulnerable. still wrapped around you. "hey you," he'll whisper. "you stayed around."
like you'd ever leave him.
♤ — 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 / 𝒽𝓂 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
Please..I need another Ben drowned smut PLEASE IT CAN EVER BE LIKE TWENTY WORDS I JUST WANT BEN DROWNED SMUT
omfg, dearie i'm so sorry, i swear, i was in the middle of lecture, and i had a after thought that i recall seeing your Inky Ask, you begging for more B.E.N Drowned, nowdays my inbox is absolutely filled with TFC, which isn't bad however you can definitely see what is the majority be asking, so your Ask was lost in the void until i found it~
mind you, this was all the way backed in January, which is crazy, so i feel you've been starved for way too long, i'll refilling your request and start focusing my attention a bit more into creepypasta:
so lore on inksilk! (OC), headcannons, maybe oneshots.
again, there's no priority who and what fandom i write, but there's definitely a majority.
lowkey, i do get bit overwhelmed and use to treat the Inky Asks like homework assignments, to try, refill everyone requests and keep the ideas following, so to avoid this I came up with idea to ONLY pick interesting/unique Inky Asks to avoid stressing out so badly.
but, when it comes to creepypasta, i'm bit more lenient because i like reading over my own works, especially eyeless jack fics.
(ps: yes, i giggle and fangirl over my own writing. i do for all on my works, however as re-reads is ONLY creepypasta. since i started posting my works, bro i haven't have much time to read and anybody else fics. so on my RARE breaks from writing/studying, i go to my TOP FIVE when it comes to fics for creepypasta 😭)
𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: oneshot · harlequin x gn! reader · forced proximity · lil angst · domestic fluff ↝ suggestive · risky · making out · dryhumping · established relationship? · biting kink · marking · possessive behavior · predator/prey dynamics · soft & needy harlequin (don't tell anyone) · (art from @omnipotentsnowboard)
𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: When you promised to take Pierrot and Harlequin on a simple shopping trip, you expected chaos, okay, just maybe not the kind that involves a sick clown, a surprisingly vulnerable predator, and a dressing room with very thin walls.
Turns out, shopping with a monster is one thing. Shopping with a monster who's caught feelings?
That's a whole different shopping issue.
𝓌𝒸: 11.8k
𝒶/𝓃: i created this inpso from the art [ 𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓁𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 ], harlequin needs justice for his complex character, and yeah, he's my favorite.
look dearie, i’m going to be real with you right now.
as a recap when you volunteered to take Harlequin on this “little date which his words, not yours, because he absolutely refuses to call it anything that might imply he wants to spend time with your—you thought you knew what you was getting into.
none of that prepared you for taking a 187 cm white-skinned monster with neon green tendrils to a shopping mall on a sunday afternoon.
none of it. so let me paint you a picture.
You walk into the Circus, which, by the way, is something you never get used to, no matter how many times you do it, and you're immediately hit with the smell of popcorn and something metallic that you've learned not to question.
Ticket Taker is at his post, hands clasped behind his back, watching you with that detached professional interest that makes you feel like you're being processed more than greeted.
"Ah, visitor,” he says, and his professional warmth is so performative you could bottle it and sell it as satire. "You've arrived for the... excursion."
You nod, trying to peek past him toward the tent area. "Is Pierrot and Harlequin ready? He wanted to come, right? I promised him we'd look at the kitchen supply store, maybe find some new spices—"
Ticket Taker's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture shifts. "I'm afraid Pierrot is... unavailable at present."
Your heart does that stupid lurch thing it always does when you hear about one of them being hurt. “Oh my god, what? Is he okay?"
"He's ill." Ticket Taker added, like mf couldn’ve said that eariler, “Doctor is attending to him. It's nothing fatal, if that's your concern. Merely... an emotional recalibration manifesting physically. He pushed himself too hard recreating a recipe from his childhood and forgot that his body no longer processes dairy the way it used to."
You blink. "Wait. He's... he's got food poisoning? From ‘nostalgia cheese?’”
Ticket Taker's silence is all the confirmation you need.
You tilt your head, preparing to ask if you can still catch a glimpse of him—Pierrot, sick and miserable, probably more in need of a check-in than anyone—but a green and black blur comes plummeting down from the rafters and lands directly in front of you.
“Finally!” Harlequin’s grin stretches so far it looks like it hurts, and he’s already in public disguise, his tendrils quivering with barely contained energy, his eyes sharp and hungry-looking, as if they’ve been waiting all week for something interesting to happen.
"I thought you'd forgotten. I thought you'd chicken out."
"Chicken out of what? It's shopping at the mall.”
He makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a purr. “Hehe, sure, little thing. Shopping." He says it like it's a code word for something infinitely more interesting. "Let's go. Now. Before the daylight burns out and the humans get boring."
He grabs your wrist, not hard, but with that careful pressure that lets you know he could absolutely break it if he wanted to—and starts dragging you toward the exit.
"Wait, wait, wait." You dig your heels in, which does absolutely nothing because he's stronger than you and also apparently has no brakes. "I wanted to check on Pierrot first—"
Harlequin stops so abruptly that you crash into his back. When he turns around, his expression has gone through about five different micro-emotions in under a second: irritation, something that might be guilt, more irritation, a flash of genuine feeling that he immediately smothers under that jagged grin.
"Pierrot's fine," he says, and his voice is doing that dual-toned thing that means he's working hard to sound casual. "Doctor's got him. He's in good hands." He tugs your wrist again. "You promised me a trip. You said—and I quote — 'Harlequin, I'll take you to the mall next time.' You can't take it back now. That's a contract. Ticket Taker probably filed it somewhere."
“I did," Ticket Taker confirms from behind you, and when you whip around to look at him, he's holding up a small slip of paper with what appears to be your exact words written on it in immaculate handwriting. "Verbal agreements are still subject to regulation."
You stare at him. “Wha… that's not— that's not how any of this works."
"At the Circus," Ticket Taker says, with the gentle condescension of someone explaining fire to a caveman, "it is. If anyone goes outside of the circus, I must document it in case anything happens…”
Harlequin is already pulling you toward the entrance, and you catch a glimpse of Ticket Taker, even Jester's massive silhouette in the shadows, watching you go with that heavy, evaluating gaze. He doesn't say anything, but you feel the weight of it all the way out the door.
And that's how you end up here.
Standing in the parking lot of the busiest mall in the city with a creature who has never experienced capitalism, has no concept of "personal space," and is currently staring at a vending machine like it personally offended his ancestors.
"What," Harlequin says slowly, pressing his face against the glass, "is this."
"It's a vending machine. You put money in, you get snacks out."
His tendrils curl with interest. "Money in. Snacks out." He taps the glass with one claw. "And if I just... take the snacks?"
"The machine will yell at you. And also you'll go to jail."
He looks at you like you've just told him the sky is made of cotton candy. "Jail? For snacks?" He straightens up, and there's something almost impressed in his expression. "Humans are so weird. You build these little glass prisons for your food and then you pay to visit them. It's like a zoo, but for things you eat."
"That's... not wrong, actually."
"I like it." He grins at you, and for a moment, just a moment—it almost looks genuine. "This is already better than I thought it would be. Show me more human weirdness."
And so it begins.
So, the first twenty minutes were actually... fine?
Okay, maybe not fine, but manageable enough for you to handle. Harlequin is on his best behavior, which for him means he's only mildly invasive instead of actively destabilizing.
You'd expected him to be completely oblivious to everything, like some kind of monster creature experiencing human society for the first time, but he's not. He's been to malls before, apparently. Just not often.
Most of their clothes are tailored by people who either don't ask questions or are paid enough not to, and their food shopping is usually quick, efficient, and done at odd hours when the stores are mostly empty.
But a mall, during the day, on a weekend? That's apparently a whole different beast.
He asks questions, like random, invasive, occasionally existential questions—about everything he sees.
Why is the floor so shiny? “Freshly waxed,” you tell him.
Why are the lights that bright? “Fluorescent bulbs, standard for commercial spaces.”
Why is everyone walking so fast like they're being hunted? You have no answer for that one. Saturday and Sunday shoppers are just like that.
He’s genuinely curious. You can tell by how his eyes take in every detail, how every twitching strand of his hair nuzzles towards interesting noises or smells emanating from under his hoodie. He’s like a cat entering a room full of laser dots, only this cat is six-foot-one and could probably benchpress a small car.
Which reminds you.
"Hey." You grab his sleeve, pulling him to a stop near a decorative planter. "The tendrils. You can't... you can't just have those out."
He looks down at where his neon green appendages are absolutely not hidden, curling and uncurling with visible curiosity toward a nearby pretzel stand. "What? Why?"
"Because humans don't have tendrils, Harlequin. That's kind of a dead giveaway."
He stares at you. You stare back.
"This is going to be a problem," he says flatly.
"Yes. Yes it is."
You spend the next five minutes attempting to wrangle his tendrils back under his hoodie while he complains, loudly about how uncomfortable it is and how you're "ruining his aesthetic" and why can't humans just accept that some people have extra limbs?
"Because we don't," you hiss, finally getting the last of them tucked away. "We really, really don't."
He lets out a sigh, adjusting his hood in irritation. His face mask remains in place, something you checked before leaving, ensuring it concealed the sharp edges of his grin and only revealed his eyes. You are now questioning your decisions.
He is not exceptionally tall. While 187 cm is tall, many people are this tall. It is the small details that will reveal him: the way he moves, almost twitchy if people notice; the way he looks at everyone; and those almost inhuman, whisper-thin strands you simply cannot ignore.
"You're staring," he says.
"You're conspicuous."
"I'm gorgeous."
"You're going to get us both arrested."
He grins behind his mask, something you can tell by the way his eyes crinkle and for a moment, it's almost playful. Almost normal. You reach up to adjust his hood, tugging it forward to better shadow his face, and that's when you notice it.
A small curl of hair, right at his temple, shaped almost like a heart.
You don't think. Your fingers just... reach for it.
He moves his head away so fast it's almost a blur. One second your hand is inches from his face, the next he's standing three feet away, shoulders rigid, expression unreadable behind the mask.
"Don't," he says. Just that. Just don't.
Your hand drops. "Sorry, I—there was a curl, I just—"
"I know." He won't look at you. His tendrils are twitching under the hoodie, betraying his agitation. "It's stupid. I can't get rid of it. It just... exists. Being annoying. Like me."
You open your mouth to apologize again, to explain that you weren't trying to invade his space, you just noticed and reacted without thinking—
But he's already moving, heading toward the food court like nothing happened.
You follow, because what else can you do?
Anyway, after this pretzel thing—yes, you are immediately thinking of it like that, because when Harlequin is involved, it seems like everything is a debacle of some sort.
Side not, you know you need a different plan.
Typically, you'd do some shoping to your favorite stores, and then pick up some food on your way out to avoid eating in public—because what if there's people watching you while you eat? Sure you shouldn't care but you don't know who's looking. And just walking around the mall with a pretzel-scented Harlequin, mind you, that has unpredictable actions?
Not an option. He actually needs to sit down.
It'll give you the benefit of you to think of future plans once y'all done eating. Plans to keep this little date, under wraps, not discovered. Plus you just know Ticket Taker and Jester are not going to let you live if anyone discover him.
And let’s be real, you don’t want to deal with that.
So you find a small Italian place tucked in the corner of the food court. The kind of place that does noodles in little takeout boxes, nothing fancy, just carbs and sauce and the bare minimum of vegetables. You order something simple, you know the usual noodles, some kind of cream sauce, maybe chicken if you're feeling optimistic and make sure Harlequin glued to your side the entire time.
He’s easy to work with, somehow.
Probably because he’s still chewing on the pretzel. Or because of the hair moment. Or both. You’re not going to question it.
When the food’s ready, you look around the food court and see a booth tucked into the corner of the food court. It’s light green, and the backs are high. It’s a little secluded, and you think it’ll work perfectly.
“Okay.” You nudge him over to the booth. “You sit there. The hidden part.” You sit down on the outside part of the booth, the part where everybody in the food court can see you. “I’ll sit here.” You gesture to the outside part of the booth, the part you’ve chosen because everybody will see you, a normal human being, eating by yourself, and they won’t see him, the not-normal creature, being conspicuous.
He raises an eyebrow above the mask. “So I’m your dirty secret?”
“You’re my liability.” You fold your arms and nod to the booth. “Now sit.”
“Oh my, so kinky, okay.” You roll your eyes at the remark and sit down on the outside part of the booth, your back to the majority of the food court. The booth faces Harlequin, but the high backs and your body block him from view.
Anyone walking by will see you, a person eating noodles, probably checking your phone, certainly not a six-foot-one monster hiding in the corner.
Perfect.
You've got it all set, ready to go. You crack open your box of takeout and dig in. The noodles are nothing special, not good, not bad, just something to chew on. You pick up your phone and start perusing your notifications, letting the white noise of the food court wash over you.
Harlequin seems to grow restless after four minutes.
He'd finished off his pretzel, devoured it, actually, with this kind of singular focus that makes you wonder if he’s even tried one before, and now he’s just... watching you. Staring, actually, with his arms folded on the table in front of him, his chin on those folded arms, following your every move.
You ignore him for a solid minute. Only a damn minute.
“Hey, you’re being rude,” he says after a while.
You look up from your phone, a bit startled. “Rude?"
“Rude,” Harlequin repeats, as if it’s obvious, as if he’s some kind of authority on the subject. “You've got someone to spend time with, someone you promised to spend time with, and you’re ignoring me, staring at your little rectangle instead of talking to me.”
You blink at him. "My... little rectangle?"
"Your phone," he says, waving a hand in disgust. "The thing. The tiny attention suck. Put it down. Talk to me. I'm interesting."
You can't help it. You laugh. You actually laugh—right there in the food court, just hearing Harlequin complaining that you're not paying enough attention to him is so ridiculous that your brain just short circuits.
He straightens up, looking vaguely offended. "What's so funny?”
"Nothing. Nothing, you're right." You lock your phone and set it face-up on the table. “I’m so sorry. I'll give you my undivided attention." You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, and look at him expectantly. "So. What do you want to talk about?"
He sat there, frozen.
For a second. A fraction of a second. Just long enough to notice. He wasn’t expecting you to actually agree to talk to him. He thought you’d argue with him, play games with him, have some fun with him. But you didn’t.
You just... gave him what he wanted?
No negotiation, just your complete attention. “I—” He pauses, starts again. “You could ask me a question, right? That’s how this works? Question and answer and—”
“Well you tell me,” you say. “You’re the one who wanted to talk.”
He squints his eyes, trying to determine if you are teasing him or not. You aren’t...mostly.
“Fine.” He leans forward to match your posture. “Why do you put up with me?”
A random question intrudes before you can get your feet under you again. "What?"
"Me. Harlequin. The annoying freaky one, at least to some folks." He makes a vague gesture with his hand. "You complained about me before. Called me a liability. But you still brought me along. You got me a pretzel. You’re sitting here with me. Why?"
Your mouth opens, then hesitates, then tries again. "I... I don’t actually have a good answer to that."
"Try."
Okay. So, you take a moment to think about it.
Why do you allow him to be in your life?
Fair point. He invades your space and personal boundaries. He distorts things through his manipulation. He is emotionally closed off. He is reckless, annoying. He cannot receive affection without sidestepping it. He is always flirting. He is always sidestepping your affection.
He is dangerous. He is unpredictable. He is—
“Your heart-shaped curl," you say before you can stop yourself. His eyes go wide. Just for a moment. Then the mask slides back into place.
"That's not an answer."
“It’s a vague one. Maybe not perfect, but true.” You shrug, trying to stay cool even as your heart does something ridiculous in your chest. “There’s this softness to you, a detail that’s… surprising. And I think there’s more of it beneath all this,” you gesture toward him vaguely, “…this.”
"This being?"
“Predatory. Defensive. Chaotic.” You count them off on your fingers. “You act like you don’t care about anything, but you do. A lot. You just don’t know how to show it without turning it into a game.”
He’s silent for a long time, and then a smile erupts, and you can almost see it in his eyes, this jagged line of a smile, and he moves closer.
“Careful, little thing. Keep talking like that, and I might think you like me.”
You roll your eyes. “There it is.”
“What? I’m just saying—”
“You’re deflecting again.”
“I’m flirting with you,” he says. “There’s a difference.”
You sighed before adding, “Is there? With you?”
Ouch. You really got him there, he opens his mouth to say something probably completely infuriating, but you continue to focus on your noodles anyway. Like you just know that if you continue to look at him, you’ll end up saying something you’ll regret.
He huffs. “You’re eating again.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I want some.”
You stop, your plastic fork halfway to your mouth. “You want some of my noodles?”
“Yes. That’s what I said.”
“You just had a whole pretzel.”
“The pretzel is gone. The pretzel was a snack. This is—” He squints at your takeout box. “What even is that?”
“Noodles. Cream sauce. Chicken.”
“Mhm, that’s not a real name.”
“It’s a description, not the damn name. The name is on the menu.”
“Then why didn’t you say the name?”
“Because I forgot the name.”
“You forgot the name of the thing you’re eating?”
“It’s noodles, Harlequin. With stuff. The name doesn’t matter.”
He stares at you like you’ve committed a crime while eating, “Wow, Humans are so strange. You eat something without knowing the name. You just... eat it. Based on what? Based on how it feels? How it smells? How it tastes? Based on what?
“Based on hunger. Now do you want some or not?”
He thinks about it for a moment, pride or something weird about accepting food from you, but eventually nods shyly. “Just a tiny bite.”
You hold up a little morsel of food. He bends forward, lowering his black mask so that his mouth is visible.
Shit. You wasn’t ready for how intimate this would feel. Watching him eat from my chopsticks. The way his eyes met mine. The way his tongue darted out to catch a little of the sauce—
Before your brain can even register, you look away. Like hella fast. “Good?” You ask, voice shaking, just bit.
He chews thoughtfully. “Different from the pretzel. Softer. More...wet.”
“That’s the sauce. That's what that is.”
“I like it,” he says, pulling his mask back up. “More.”
You frowned at his face, genuine confusion by the sudden order, “You’re so demanding.”
“You’re taking me out,” he says. “Meaning I get what I want.”
“And a menace. A demeaning menace.”
Yet you keep giving him more, and more after that. In the process of giving him this absurd takeout box filled with noodles, you forget to maintain the caution you are supposed to maintain around him. You forget that he is dangerous. You forget that this is Harlequin, the one who makes Pierrot filled with pent-up anger. Like sharing food in a dim corner booth in the food court of the mall, like two normal people who have no shadow of trauma between them. It’s kind of nice.
It’s terrifying… and somehow sweet?
Somehow, you're both eating from the same noodle. You don't know how it happens, one of those stupid simultaneous-bite moments where you both go for the same strand at the same time but suddenly you're on one end and he's on the other and there's only so much noodle to go around.
Your eyes widen. His narrow.
You try to let go, to break the strand, to do literally anything that isn't this, but he just... keeps eating. Slowly. Carefully. His arms fold on the table, casual, confident, as he watches you over the shrinking distance between you.
You should pull away. You don't.
The noodle gets shorter. And shorter. And shorter—
Until his face is inches from yours. Until you can see the exact shade of his neon green eyes, the way they're half-lidded, the tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. Until you can feel his breath, warm and steady, against your lips.
You stop breathing. He doesn't.
He just... watches. Waits. Lets the moment stretch until you think you might actually pass out from lack of oxygen. And then, which finally, the noodle disappears between his lips.
For one heart-stopping second, you think he's going to close the distance. You think he's going to kiss you. You think about that green fork tongue, about what that would feel like, about whether you'd even survive the experience—
His hand covers your eyes.
What the fuck. Yeah, Just like that. Palm flat against your face, blocking your vision, plunging you into darkness.
You can't see anything. Can't see his expression. Can't see what he's doing. Can't see if he's leaning closer or pulling away or just sitting there, watching you squirm.
Your heart is pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.
"Is this—" Your voice comes out embarrassingly high. "What are you—"
"Shh." His voice is soft. Closer than you expected. Right in front of you. "Just wait."
Wait for what? You want to ask. You want to push his hand away and see what's happening. You want to run. You want to stay. You want—
Something touches your nose.
Just the tip. Barely there. A brush of warmth and... wetness? there and gone.
Then his hand drops.
You blink in the sudden light, vision swimming, and find him sitting back in his seat like nothing happened. Arms folded. Grin sharp. Eyes bright with something that might be mischief and might be something else entirely.
"We touched noses," he says casually. "That's a thing humans do, right? Eskimo kisses? I read about it somewhere."
You stare at him, mouth open, brain absolutely not functioning, like personally, you think he did something more than just a damn ‘Eskimo’ he most likely licked your nose.
"That's— you— we—"
"You're welcome." He sounds insufferably pleased with himself. “Now can we get more noodles? I’ve decided I like the wet kind.”
You don’t move. You can’t. Your brain’s gone into some sort of pause, replaying what’s just happened in a loop.
Like you can't just stop thinking what he JUST did.
Him leaning in close, both of y’all noses almost touching. Almost a lick, almost a kiss, but not quite. Just close enough to feel the electricity building up, the hand over your eyes, the pause before it all erupts into something else entirely. Your heart’s racing off into some crazy tempo, and to mention you're making the most weirdest expression across your face.
“Human?” he asks, tilting his head with a mock-innocence so pale it’s almost funny. “You okay? You look a little… flushed.”
“You—” You try to speak, your composure slipping through you, “You’re insufferable.”
"Probably." He shrugs. "But you're still here. Still sharing your noodles. Still looking at me like I'm something worth looking at." His grin softens, just a fraction, just enough to notice. "Like I said. Careful, little thing."
You’re still trying to get your head around what just happened, the whole nose part, your hand over your eyes, the relentless pounding of your heart in your chest.
Then Harlequin lets out a sigh.
Not a sneer. Not a snicker. Just... a sigh. Heavy. Real.
You raise your eyes.
His face has changed. The razor-sharp grin is nowhere to be found. The gleam in his eyes has cooled to something almost... intimate. He looks at you as if you’re a puzzle he’s been trying to figure out for weeks or maybe months and has finally figured out.
“You know,” he says softly, “you’re not very good at hiding it.”
“Hiding what?”
“What you want.” He tilts his head to one side, looking at you. “You think you’re being subtle. The way you look at me. The way you tolerate my crap. The way you bought me a pretzel and shared your noodles with me and didn’t bolt when I... when I did the... the nose thing.”
You want this. You want me.
Your lips part to protest, to deflect the truth of his words, to deflect the truth of his voice. But no sound comes out.
He mutters something under his breath. Something soft and low. Something that might have gone unnoticed. But he didn’t say anything that would have gone unnoticed. Not to me.
“Linda coisa.”
It’s Portuguese. You don’t know what the words mean. But the way he says them. The way he says them like they’re precious. Like they’re delicate. Like he’s afraid to say them out loud. It pulls at your chest, a aching feeling.
And he moves with such speed.
One moment, he’s seated across the table from you. The next, he’s close enough to invade your space, a large hand cradling your face with a surprising gentleness. His other hand moves to your lower back, pulling you closer, and you don’t pull away, like you can’t.
His eyes lock with yours, searching for permission, for consent, for the whispered yes—
You give it to him. In whatever way you’re able, you give it to him.
And then his mouth finds yours.
It’s not what you thought you’d get. It’s not cruel, or grasping, or intrusive. It’s warm. It’s rich. It’s got a carefulness to it, like it’s costing him something. His forked tongue brushes against yours, and yeah, that’s weird. And yet, it’s not wrong. It’s just him. Harlequin, for all intents and purposes.
This crazy, frustrating, secretly sweet him, who kisses like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to tell him it’s safe to try.
Your arms come up around his shoulders. His hand slides from your face into your hair, tilting your head just so. The hand on your lower back presses closer, closer, until there's no space left between you.
You could stay like that forever.
You ache to stay like that.
But that is exactly why you cannot.
You push him away. Not harsh, only enough to break contact, to create distance, to breathe. Your hand comes up to wipe your mouth, and you hate that you're doing it, hate the way his eyes looked with something hurt before he masks it.
You can't look at him.
Can't meet those eyes that were just looking at you like you mattered.
"We—" Your voice comes out rough. You clear your throat. "We can't sit here forever. We should... we should just do the shopping. Get a few things. Then head back."
You stand up. Grab your half-eaten noodles. Throw them away without looking back.
You're already walking when you hear him slide out of the booth and follow.
Somehow, the keeps quiet as you walk through the mall. He doesn’t touch or prod you, merely maintains a space a little closer than necessary and looks at you with those eyes that you can’t interpret. The only thing he was thinking of:
Why did you pushed me away?
You go into a few stores. Some you genuinely need to explore, while others you wander through just to alleviate the silence, as you can’t abide the silence but aren’t quite sure how to interrupt it. You notice that he’s looking at various things—a green and black scarf here, a quirky little mannequin there, but he doesn’t ask for anything.
He doesn’t even glance at you.
You end up buying the statue anyway.
It’s a dumb little thing, some carved bird with too-big eyes, and he’s holding it like he doesn’t care about it, like he doesn’t care about anything, and yet he’s radiating this desperate need.
Sometimes you question he either has a great taste and close accessories or the most questionable there's like no in between it just he picks whatever looks interesting.
Anyway, when you give it to him at the cash register, he stares at it, and then at you, and then back at the statue.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I know.”
“But I didn’t even—”
“I know.”
He holds it as though it will break at the touch. Finally, he asks in a whisper that only you can hear, “Why are you so confusing?”
You don’t have the answer for that.
You end up at one of your favorite stores—places with nice lighting, nice music, and clothing that fits the way you want it to fit. You pick up a few things, nothing too fancy, just things you've been meaning to try out, and turn to find Harlequin standing by the entrance like some kind of large, suspicious security guard.
"I'm going to try these on," you tell him. "Stay. Don't mess with anyone."
"Can I come?" he asks.
"To the dressing room? No," you tell him.
"Not in the dressing room," he says. "Just... nearby. To watch your stuff." He holds up your shopping bag as if it's evidence of his capabilities as a bodyguard. "I'm very good at watching things."
"You're very good at talking and being nosy," you tell him.
"That too," he says. "But mostly watching."
You don't get a chance to continue the conversation before a sales associate comes over. Young, friendly, and with that look that says they want to help you with anything you need and apologize for your very existence.
"Hi there! Finding everything okay?" They glance at Harlequin, from his height, his hoodie, the mask covering most of his face, yet their smile doesn't waver. "We actually have private dressing rooms if you’d like some space. Perfect for couples who want to shop together."
Harlequin’s eyes lock on you.
Waiting for you to correct him. Waiting for you to tell him you’re not his, you’re not together, any of the million true things you could say to him.
You don’t.
You just smile at the attendant—a bit tight, a bit strained, but a smile all the same—and you say, "That would be great, actually. Thank you."
Harlequin's eyebrows shoot up. But he doesn't say anything. Just follows you and the attendant toward the back of the store.
The dressing room is surprisingly nice, though.
It’s a small room, maybe eight by eight, but it’s nicely lit with soft, adjustable lighting, and it’s lined with warm wood. A full-length mirror takes up one side, with hooks along the edge for hanging things. A plush, deep green velvet bench is on the other side, plenty large for two if you're snuggled up together, and there’s a table with a vase of fresh flowers on it.
The attendant points at the bench. “Your... Boyfriend can wait here. There’s a button if you need anything. Take your time.”
They left, leaving the curtain to fall behind you. Thick, heavy fabric, truly blocking out sound and sight, rather than just pretending to.
And then it’s just you and Harlequin.
In a small, private room, wonder what can happen…
He plopped himself on the bench as if the space is his. Arm draped over the back, he fixes his gaze on the reflection, on you, on himself.
“Well,” he says, and his voice splits, half a purr, half something gentler. “This is cozy.”
You ignore him. You hang your chosen clothes on the hooks, one by one, as if this could slow your heartbeat.
Try to pretend your heart isn't trying to break through your ribs.
"The bench is very green," he continues. "Matches my aesthetic. Did you plan that?"
“Please stop.”
"You've mentioned…” there was little pause. “…You also just called me your boyfriend. To a stranger. Voluntarily."
“I didn’t call you anything,” you say. “I simply didn’t correct him.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not.”
He’s silent for a second, and when you catch him in the mirror, he’s staring at you again, that expression on his face, the one that makes you feel like a bug under a microscope, or just… prey.
Anyway, that doesn't matter.
Let's just go along with trying on the outfits!
There is something about clothes shopping that makes you want to try on something and show it off.
First off, keep it simple. A simple outfit, which is casual. A sweater that falls off your shoulders just so, and some pants that fit for a change. You come out from behind the side curtain, which is a good thing for small favors, there is a little changing room in the corner of the store.
You turn to face the mirror.
Harlequin's eyes find you immediately.
"So?" You gesture at your reflection. “wWhat’s the verdict?"
He takes his time. Lets his gaze drag from your shoulders to your waist to your ankles and back up again. When he finally speaks, his voice is doing that low, rumbling thing that makes your stomach flip. "You look like you're about to steal someone's heart and also their coffee order. It's a good look."
You blink. "That's... oddly specific."
"I'm an oddly specific creature." He grins. "Next."
Outfit two is a put togther, more elevated look. Clean lines, tailored fabric, you know, the kind of look that says you've got your act together, even when you're wobbling on the inside. You pose, hand on hip, chin up, a wry, slightly bored expression.
“Well?”
Harlequin’s tendrils of color quiver beneath his hoodie. “You look like you could run a corporation into the ground and make it look like you meant to do it. Very powerful. Very ‘I should be compensated for existing.’”
A smile wants to creep up on your lips, against your will. “That’s… actually really nice.”
“Don’t get used to it.” But Harlequin’s expression, his eyes were soft. “Next.”
Behind the curtain, your hands press to your feverish cheeks.
What the hell? When did Harlequin, like Harlequin, start serving up compliments like that? Real ones, sincere ones, not-mocking ones? You thought you’d get snarky comments, boundary-pushing jokes, maybe a comment on how the material fit your hips.
Not... that. Not that.
You take a breath. You reach for the next outfit. You try to get your act together.
Outfit three is like a warm hug from a lazy Sunday afternoon. A comfortable sweater, comfortable pants—worn when the only plan is to do absolutely nothing.
You step out, already preparing to defend against a lame joke about being boring.
Harlequin's face changes in a way that is difficult to read. It is as though his face is melting slightly around the edges.
“You look,” he begins slowly, “like someplace safe. Like if I saw you in that outfit, I would want to… stay around.” He glances away, almost embarrassed. “That is a good thing. Just so you know.”
You have no idea what to say to that. You nod, go back behind the curtain, and try to stop thinking about what it must say about you that Harlequin thinks of you as a safe place.
Meanwhile, right on the other side of the curtain, Harlequin is losing his shit.
Safe? You called them safe?
Like what kind of compliment is that? That's not even a compliment, that's just—that's just true, but he weren't supposed to say it out loud. He weren't supposed to let you know that you make him… feel things?
That the way you look at him, that look of patient, amused, fond, makes him want to curl up and purr like some kind of needy cat.
Poor Harlequin, the one who practice tongue twisters for fun. He can mess with the entire circus with nothing but words. He made Pierrot irritating, many of times.
But one human in a cozy sweater has reduced him into being such a sweeite.
This is a wreck for him. Or maybe… not?
Outfit four now, this one is bold. Dark colors. Crisper cuts. The kind of outfit that makes you feel invincible. Like nothing can touch you. Like you could take on the world. Deadass, you strike a dramatic pose in front of the mirror.
“Thoughts?” you asked.
Harlequin is leaning in, his elbows on his knees. He's got his eyes locked on you. You look dangerous. In a good way. Like if anyone tries anything with you, they’re going to have to answer to you. “I like it. A lot.”
You puff out a little, satisfied. “Yeah?”
“Yeah….” he edges on, “Makes me want to see what else you can do~”
You try to keep the grin inside as you head behind the curtain. However behind the curtain once more, you squat down and press your forehead to your knees.
I didn't know it could be like this.
What does that mean? What does any of this mean?
He's Harlequin. He's supposed to be sharp and mocking and emotionally constipated. He's not supposed to say things that make your chest ache and your heart race and your brain short-circuit with feelings.
You need to get a grip.
You grab the next outfit.
Outfit five looks like a playful match up, full of bright colors and bold patterns that make you feel like a walking work of art.
You make a silly pose just to see how he reacts.
He snorts, but it’s a warm sound. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
The words hang there a moment too long.
“I do,” he says quietly. “I really do.”
You duck behind the curtain before either of you has to say more.
Outfit six looks sleek and monochromatic, the kind of sharp that could cut you with a glance. You step out as if you’re strutting a catwalk, turn on your heel, and pose.
Harlequin actually applauds, “Alright, that’s my favorite one,” He declares. “You look like you could take someone down and then discuss philosophy with them afterwards. Very intimidating. Very sexy. Ten out of ten.”
Your face splits open with a grin that hurts. “That’s some top-shelf praise.”
“I’m a connoisseur of taste.” Harlequin waves his hand dismissively. “Go on. I want to see all of them~”
Sadly, the last fit you have was Outfit seven. Something you reach for it without looking, still flustered from his last comment, and pull it out.
Oh. Holy shit.
This is... this is a lot. More revealing than you usually go for. Sexier. The kind of outfit that says “I know what I'm doing and I want you to know it too’ type shit.
You should probably skip it. End this little fashion show to be on the safer side, avoid the outfit that won't make things even more complicated. But like, you can hear him out there, waiting.
And some reckless part of you wants to see his reaction.
You change quickly, not letting yourself think too hard about it. When you step out from behind the curtain, you keep your eyes on the mirror instead of on him.
"So," you say, sticking your head out the curtain, trying to hide the outfit first, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "This one's maybe a little... much?"
Just straight silence.
Like, you risk a glance at him in the mirror.
He's staring. Not in the usual predatory way he usually does. Just... staring. Like he's forgotten how to do anything else, which mind you, ODD. His hands are gripping the edge of the bench, knuckles white—which how how is he gripping his pants last time you checked his hands were the color black, and his expression is completely, very much unreadable.
"You know," he says softly, and his voice is rougher than before, lower, "you still haven't explained why you pushed me away."
Oh, you should've figured he was still on that.
“That kiss," he continues. "It was good. The best one I have ever pulled off. You clearly liked it. I could tell." His voice drops. "I can always tell. So why?"
You don't turn around. Absolutely can’t, because if you look at him, you'll… break. "Because," you say carefully, still thinking, "if I let myself have that, you know, have you, don't think I'd be able to let go. And we both know how this ends."
"How does it end?"
“Whatever the circus decides type of end." You finally turn, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "I'm not stupid, Harlequin. I know what you are. What you've done. What you're capable of. I know that Jester watches me like I'm a pet that might bite. I know Ticket Taker has a file on me somewhere. I know that whatever this is…” you gesture between you, “…like it exists inside their rules. Their tolerance. And if that tolerance runs out—"
He cuts you off.
Not with words… yet with laughter?
Like actual, genuine, can't-help-it type of laughter that spills out of him like he's been holding it in for hours. He's sitting forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, and he's laughing at you…
It didn’t sound like cruelly, not mockingly, just... straight laughing. Like you've said something so sily that he can't process it any other way.
You turn fully now, facing him without the mirror between you. Just watching him laugh, confusion must be written all over your face because he just keeps going, shaking his head, muttering something in Portuguese that you don't catch.
"Você tem que estar brincando comigo," he gasps out. "Você— você realmente—" He breaks off, laughing again.
"What?" You cross your arms. "What's so funny?"
He finally gets himself under control, but his eyes are still bright with amusement. "You. This. All of it." He gestures between you. "You're standing here, in a dressing room, wearing that—" his eyes looked down and back up, "—talking about the circus like they're the reason I'd let you go, and you don't even realize."
"Realize what?"
He finally stands up. In non-threatening way, just moving, pacing the small space… close like a caged animal. His tendrils, simply twitching under his hoodie.
"You think I'm like Pierrot," he says. "You think I'm going to just... accept whatever they decide. Let them take things away from me because it's 'efficient' or 'necessary' or whatever logic Jester wants to use." He laughs again, but it's sharper now. "Pierrot's the one who lets things happen. Pierrot's the one who watches and mourns and accepts. I'm the one who makes things happen. I'm the one who decides."
You stare at him. "I... know that. That's not what I—"
"Do you?" He stops pacing, turns to face you fully.
"Because it sounds like you're waiting for someone else to write the ending of this. Like you're just... bracing for impact. Waiting for them to take this away from you." His voice drops. "From us."
"I'm being realistic."
"You're being tremendo paspalhão,” He says it almost gently. "Desculpa, but you are. You're standing here, looking like—" He stops. Swallows. Fixing his words. "You're staning here, and you're not even asking me what I want."
You frowned and then cross your arms looking up at him, “What do you want then?”
Your question hangs between the both of you.
Harlequin tries to say something, but then he stops, his mouth opening and then closing quickly. “I...“ he tries again, but his words get jumbled, fumbled, and his jaw clenches in annoyance. He runs his hand through his hair, pushing his hoodie off his head, and beanie, even though the same heart-shaped curl that nobody is allowed to touch, and sighs.
“I don’t— you can’t just—“
"You're the one who said I should ask."
His eyes glanced away, "Not like that." There was hints of pinkness across his face; he's flustered.
It would’ve been funny and cute to tease if it wasn't so revealing.
"You know," you say slowly, "for someone who flirts constantly, you're really bad at this."
"Bad at what?"
"You know, being open and stuff. Being honest. Being—" You gesture vaguely. "Real for once."
He stiffens, cross his arms. “Pfff, what, I’m real."
“Hmm real enough. That’s the problem.” You stepped closer. “Like you’re saying all these things that make me think you actually care—and then you dodge the moment I take you seriously.”
“I don’t dodge from anything.”
"You already did it, few times today to be exact, like you literally just changed the subject from 'what do you want' to 'you can't ask me that.' That's deflecting."
He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. His face goes through a series of rather embarrassed expressions in the space of a second. "That's—that's different."
"How?" you asked.
"Because—" He stops, pressing his palms to his face. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled. "Because I don't know how to answer that. Okay? I don't know what I want. I've never—" He drops his hands, and his eyes are raw in a way you've never seen. "I've never had anyone ask. Not like they wanted the actual answer."
You kept listened, generally curious.
"Everything I've ever wanted, I've had to take. Fight for. Earn through fear or… freakiness. Wanting something—just wanting it, openly, vulnerably—that's how you lose it. That's how they take it away." His jaw tightens. "That's how we lost… her."
Columbina.
He doesn't say the name, but you hear it anyway.
"Harley—“
“Don't." He holds up a hand. "Don't— I'm not—" He laughs showing off that sharpened smile, yet… there's no humor in any of it.
"You want to know what I want? Fine. I want this. I want you. I want to keep having moments like this, where you look at me like I'm not a monster. Where you touch my hair without even thinking about it. Where you share your food and roll your eyes at my jokes and stay even when I'm being insufferable." His voice cracks a little. "But I don't know how to have that. I don't know how to just... let myself be happy without assuming it's a trap."
You stood there for a few seconds.
Is that how he always viewed himself as?
Just a monster?
Regardless, you cross the distance between the both of you. Slow enough for him noicted and to stop you if he so pleases. Close enough to see the dilation of his pupils and the hitch in his breathing of your body suddenly being close to his, looking up at him with the kindness eyes he has ever seen.
A pair that he haven’t seen in the longest of time.
"Can I touch you?" you randomly ask.
He blinks for a few seconds, then says, "Qué?"
"Your hair. The curl. May I touch it?"
He continued stares at you, lost and confuse, “That’s—that’s what you’re asking? Now? After everything I just—”
"Yeah." You sighed, softly. "That's what I'm asking."
For once, Harlequin, mind you who always has something to say, always has a quip or a deflection or a boundary type pushing comment, is like completely silent.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods.
He sits back down on the the bench, allowing you freely to reach. You lead over, lucky this time he didn’t pull away, your fingers find the heart-shaped curl near the temple of his forhead. It was soft, softer than you expected, like it's the one part of him that never learned to be hard. You brush it gently, watching the way the light catches the strands.
He shudders, a full-body tremor that he can't quite hide, can't mask behind his usual sharp edges. His eyes flutter closed for just a second before snapping open again, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he stops watching.
"See?" you murmur. "Now does that seem like a trap? At the end of the day, it just... me. Just us."
His eyes are wide, shocked in a way that makes your chest ache. "Ah..." He blinks rapidly, trying to hide... something. Perhaps his vulnerability? Maybe, his want.
The thing he's spent so long pretending he doesn't need.
You keep touching his hair. Gentle strokes, working through the strands, letting your fingers trail down to the nape of his neck—completely ignoring the black discoloration underneath his chin, well under his mask. He makes a tiny sound, one that’s so quiet you almost miss it, still leans into your touch without seeming to realize he's doing it.
"Você va a arruinar, meu bem…" he whispers, more mumbling to himself than to you.
Still, you don't make comment. Just keep touching him, slow and careful, like he's something precious. Your thumb traces the line of his jaw, feather-light. His eyes flutter again. He stares at you for another long moment. Then, slowly, carefully, like he's afraid you'll bolt, terrified of wanting this much that cause him to he reaches out and pulls you into his arms.
The hug alone was desperate and clinging, his face pressed into your hair, his arms wrapped around you like you're the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting beneath his feet. He's trembling, just slightly.
You let him. You wrap your arms around him too, one hand finding its way back to his hair, stroking gently. He shudders again, presses closer.
"I've got you," you murmur. "I'm here."
He doesn't respond. Just breathes, slow and shaky, against your hair.
Eventually, you pull back just enough to look at him, again allowing you hand moves from his hair to his cheek. Cupping it gently. Thumb tracing the sharp line of his mask cheekbone.
He leans into it. Just a fraction. Probably doesn't even notice he's doing it.
"You look peaceful,” you whisper.
He snorts, a weak attempt at his usual crude playfulness. “That's what happened you're always chaotic. Comes with the whole 'being a monster' thing. Very demanding act, sabe? Doesn't leave much time for self-care."
You don't laugh. Don't even smile. Just keep looking at him, soft and steady, your thumb still tracing gentle patterns on his cheek.
His voice falters. "What?" he asks, and his voice is smaller than you've ever heard it. "Why are you looking at me like—"
He freezes, completely, like if he moves, the words will stop being true. "You don't have to say that," he says quietly. "I know what I am. I know what I've done. You don't have to—"
"Harley." You cut him off gently. "I'm not saying it because I have to. I'm saying it because it's true."
He stares at you. His expression is doing something complicated, mix of disbelief and hope and fear all tangled together in a way that makes him look softer, more human than you've ever seen him.
"That's—" He laughs, but it's shaky. "That's really stupid, you know. Believing that. Trusting that."
"Probably." You smile. "But I'm here anyway."
And that moment comes, and you took your chance.
And while he is off guard, soft and looking at you like you’re something he’s afraid to blink away from, you lean in and you kiss him.
Soft and gentle. Unlike the first kiss, which was desperate and hungry and full of wanting. Unlike this one, which is going at a gentle pace and like you have all the time in the world and like there is nowhere else you’d rather be.
Your hand is on his cheek, holding him gently.
He makes a sound against your mouth. Something broken and surprised and desperately.
When you pull back, his eyes are wet again. "Qué..." he whispers. "Qué você fez comigo."
You don't know what it means. But the way he says it close like a prayer, a confession, like he's not sure whether he's been saved or destroyed. That alone makes your heart clench.
"Whatever it is," you say softly, "I'd do it again."
He stares at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, carefully, he leans forward and rests his forehead against yours.
"You're going to be the death of me," he whispers.
"Probably." You brush your thumb across his cheek again. "But I think you're worth the risk."
He laughs, a real laugh, surprised and warm and a little bit wet and you feel it against your lips because you're still right there, still close enough to breathe the same air.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Yeah, I guess you are too."
And then you're kissing him again.
This time it's different. This time there's no hesitation, no careful slowness. This time it's want, just pure and simple and burning between you like a thing that's been waiting to catch fire.
You climb into his lap without thinking about it. One leg, then the other, settling over his thighs, your knees pressing into the velvet bench on either side of him. His hands find your waist immediately, just grabbing, holding, pulling you closer like he's afraid you'll change your mind.
You won't.
You cup his face in your hands and kiss him deep. Your fingers tangle in his hair, even that stupid heart-shaped curl, the soft parts, all of it, and he makes a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a whimper. "Fuck," he breathes against your mouth. "You can't just— you can't do that—"
"Do what?"
"That. This." His hands tighten on your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of that ridiculous sexy outfit you're still wearing. "Climb into my lap like you own the place. Kiss me like you've been thinking about it all day. Touch my hair like—" He stops, swallows. "Like it's yours."
You pull back just enough to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, his lips kiss-swollen, his expression caught somewhere between desperate and wondering.
"It is mine,” you say. "If you want it to be."
He stares at you. "That's— you can't just say things like that—"
"Why not?"
"Because—" He laughs, shaky. "Because I'll believe you. Because I'll want it to be true. Because I'll—" His voice cracks. "I'll let myself have it. And if it gets taken away—"
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." You brush your thumb across his lower lip. "I know you'll fight for it. For me. You said so yourself."
He groans, dropping his head forward to rest against your chest. "I hate that you remember that."
"I remember everything you say to me."
"That's creepy."
"You love it."
He lifts his head, and there's something raw in his eyes. "Yeah," he whispers. "I really, really do."
You kiss him again. Slower this time, but no less intense. Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his ear, the soft skin behind it that makes him shiver. His hands slide up your waist, your ribs, stopping just below your chest like he's asking permission without words.
You press closer in answer. "Harley," you murmur against his mouth.
"Mm?"
"We're in a dressing room."
“I’ve noticed."
"People can probably hear us."
"Don't care."
"You might care when Ticket Taker finds out, files a report about it."
He laughs, bright and surprised and pulls back to look at you. “Aw, you're thinking about Ticket Taker right now? While you're sitting in my lap? While you're wearing that? How naughty~”
"I'm thinking about consequences. One of us has to."
"Boring." He nips at your lower lip, just sharp enough to make you gasp. "Consequences are future-us's problem. Current-us has more important things to focus on."
"Like what?"
"Like—" He kisses you, deep and slow. "—making sure you remember—" Another kiss. "—exactly why you climbed into my lap—" Another. "—in the first place."
You're breathless. "Pretty sure I remember."
"Yeah?" His hands squeeze your waist. "Prove it."
So you do.
You kiss him like you mean it. Like you've been waiting for this all day—well really he kissed you first, but think of it as pay back. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. His hands grip your waist, holding you steady, holding you close, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his hold.
You don't want to dissolve. You want to stay right here, in this ridiculous dressing room, on this velvet bench, in the lap of a monster who kisses like he's been starving for centuries.
"You're so—" He breaks off, kissing your throat. "So much. So warm. So real." He huffs a laugh against your skin. "I'm literally the least real thing in this room."
"You're real to me."
He stops. Pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are doing that thing again, a vulnerable thing that makes you want to wrap him up and keep him safe from everything, including himself.
"Você vai me matar," he whispers. "Você vai me matar com sua boca doce e suas mãos gentis."
Again, you don't know what it means. But the way he says it, more in a breathless, wrecked, like you've already destroyed him, enough to make something hot curl in your stomach.
“Then I guess you'll just have to die happy."
He laughs quielty and then you're kissing again and this time, there's nothing soft about it.
His mouth crashes into yours, his forked tongue slides against yours, dual and warm and different, and you make a sound you've never heard yourself make before. He swallows it greedily, pulling you closer, closer, until there's no space left between your bodies.
Your hips shift without permission. Just a small movement, a tiny roll against his lap, yet he feels it. His whole body goes tense beneath you, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Do that again."
So you do, just more slower this time, rolling your hips against his, feeling the heat of him through layers of clothing, watching his eyes go dark and hungry.
His teeth find your lower lip, which are sharp, pointed, tugging at you. Just enough to sting. Just enough to make you gasp. "Harley—"
"Shh." He soothes the sting with his tongue, that forked thing tracing over the spot he just bit. “We have to be quiet now, my dear~”
His hands slide down from your waist to your hips, gripping, guiding. Moving you against him in a pace that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You can feel him, all of him—hard and wanting beneath you, and the knowledge that you did that, you made Harlequin fall apart, is almost too much to handle.
You kiss him harder. Deeper. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just right, and the sound he makes goes straight to your core.
"Teeth," he warns against your mouth. "Gonna use them. Tell me if it's too much."
And then his mouth is on your neck.
Sharp teeth graze your pulse point, just grazing, just teasing, before his tongue follows, wet and warm and forked. The sensation makes you jolt, makes your hips grind down harder, makes you forget your own name.
He bites.
Not hard enough to draw blood but close enough that you feel the pressure, the danger, the want behind it. You cry out, and he shushes you again, kissing the spot, licking over it, soothing the ache even as his hips rock up to meet yours.
"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "That's it, little thing. Feel so good. Feel so right."
You can't form words. Can only hold onto him, ride the pace, let him devour you in the best possible way.
His hands are everywhere, your hips, your back, your thighs. Hooking under your knees, spreading you wider over his lap, changing the angle so that every grind hits perfect. You're both still fully clothed, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except this moment, the desperate sounds he keeps making against your skin.
"Harley—" His name breaks on a moan. "I'm—if we keep going—"
"I know." He sounds wrecked. "I know. Me too. Foda…”
He bites your shoulder this time, sharp and claiming and you grind down hard, chasing that edge, chasing him—
And then someone's phone buzzes.
Both of you freeze.
It's yours. Your phone, still in your bag, reminding you that the real world exists and time has apparently been passing and you've been in this dressing room for way, way too long.
Harlequin drops his forehead to your shoulder and groans.
"I hate technology," he mutters.
You laugh, a bit of breathless, shaky, completely unhinged. "We should... we should probably go. Before someone comes looking."
"Let them look."
"Harley."
He lifts his head. His eyes are still dark, his I'm curly hair a bite messy. There are fresh bite marks on his neck too—which you don't remember doing that, but you must have and he looks ruined in the best possible way.
"Fine," he sighs. "But we're finishing this later."
"That a promise?"
His grin sharpens. "Absolutamente."
Somehow, you both manage to pull yourselves together.
You change back into your original clothes — the sexy outfit going back on its hanger, destined to be purchased because there's no way you're leaving it here after that.
Harlequin fixes his hoodie, adjusts his mask, tries to tame his hair with limited success. You do your best to cover the bite marks on your neck, but your best isn't very good. They're everywhere. Visible. Obvious. A map of exactly what you were doing for the past hour.
"Maybe they won't notice," you mutter.
Harlequin snorts. "They're monsters, little thing. They notice everything."
"Great. Fantastic. Love that for us."
He sighs, genuine, and grabs your hand. “Vá lá."
The walk back to the circus is quiet and relaxed. His hand remains intertwined with yours the entire way, and no one ever mentions it. However, as you pass beyond the gates, it is not Ticket Taker who waits for you.
It is Jester.
His silhouette alone stood in the doorway, a purple light at his feet, and his eyes are locked on the two of you. His face is just as inscrutable as ever, but his eyes seem to shift ever so slightly.
You and Harlequin stand next to each other,
Harlequin—first of all, has a real whole ass smile across his face, like he’s forgotten to pretend that he’s got something to hide. You, on the other hand, look like you’ve been through war itself. Your hair is bit messy, your clothes are creased and askew, and the bite marks... well, the bite marks are just waiting to shout.
Jester’s eyes look between you and Harlequin, who is a much neater, identical counterpart, then back to you.
There is a long, heavy pause between the three of you.
"Welcome back," he says finally. His voice, controled, resonant, that maternal-authority thing he does so well. "I trust your outing was... productive?”
Harlequin's smile somehow gets wider. "Very."
"Mm." Jester's eyes linger on your neck. "I can see that."
You want to die. Right there.
Just sink into the concrete and never resurface.
"Harlequin." Jester's tone is gentle but firm, “Control yourself. At least a little."
Harlequin's grin doesn't falter. "Tá."
Just that. Just a single word, casual and unbothered, like Jester just reminded him to pick up milk on the way home.
Jester’s eyes crinkle, and for an instant, there’s the promise of a smile. Almost, but not quite. He looks at you again, and the expression relaxes slightly. Just enough for you to see the change.
“Thanks for bringing him back,” Jester says. “In one piece, mostly.” He looks at the marks again, “At least, I think that’s true. Although it looks like he didn’t do the same for you.”
“Jester—”
“I was kidding.” His tone is warm, and that’s surprising, considering everything that’s happened. “Mostly. You did well today. He…” Jester looks over at Harlequin, who’s still grinning from ear to ear, still radiating an uncharacteristic buoyancy. “He’s different around you. And that’s good. That’s very good, considering that you're human.”
You don't know what to say to that.
Jester reaches out and rests a massive hand on your shoulder. Only for a moment. Just long enough to feel the weight of it. "Rest," he says. "You've earned it. Both of you." He looks at Harlequin. "Try not to leave more marks where the guest can see them."
Harlequin snorts. "No promises."
"Somehow, I believed that." Jester's hand drops. He turns, already moving toward the shadows. "Good night, little human. Try to keep up with him. He's faster than he looks."
And then he's gone, purple glow fading right behind him.
You stand there for a moment, processing. "He's... nice, most of the time, still a bit terrifying. you say finally. "For a terrifying ancient monster."
Harlequin laughs, pulling you close. "He approves of you. He doesn't like any human.”
"What, really?"
"Really." He pats your head, rather awkwardly, completely at odds with the bite marks he left on your neck, then he added, "You're special, little thing. Now come let's finish what we started~” He begins pulling you towards the green tent.
Ah shit.
bonus part! + pierrot and doctor.
Pierrot was still a disaster.
And not in the fun, chaotic way Harlequin is a disaster. In the sad, pathetic, "I accidentally gave myself food poisoning from old cheese and now I'm dying" kind of way. He's been filling the symptoms since weekend, it been pass over. He's curled up in his nest of blankets, like deadass, it's like eight layers deep with his void eyes doing that sad look thing they do when he's miserable.
Doctor hovers nearby, occasionally checking his pulse with clinical detachment and making notes on a little note pad. "You're going to be okay," he said in a calm tone, "I know this with absolute certainty" tone. "Dairy. You'll live."
Pierrot makes a sound like a dying whale. Doctor sighs.
Then suddenly, the curtain rustles, and you peek your head in. "Hey. I heard you were—"
Pierrot's head snaps up, suddenly waking up. His blank stare flashes with a sudden shine of honey-amber color, as if a switch has flipped and a constellation of stars has awakened within him.
"You came," he whispers. "You came. You visited me. You—" He stops, noicted you limping towards him and was hit by a sudden smell/ His face shows a confusing expression for a second. Then his eyes move to your neck.
His eyes grow wide, "You..." He sits up, his blankets wrapped tightly around him. "You were with Harlequin."
You stop, surprised by how quickly he has picked up on it. “I can explain—”
“Yesterday and Today.” Pierrot's voice cracks. "You were with him. While I was sick. While I was dying." First of all He's not dying. He just has an upset stomach.
"Pierrot—"
“You smell like him.” His eyes lock on you, his expression frightening, his eyes darkening and churning. “You’re marked by him. In my room. He was everywhere on you and I wasn’t there and I—”
He starts to rise from the bed almost off the mattress, but the Doctor’s hand shoots out and holds him fast against the bed with unexpected strength. “No,” Doctor says. “Stay in bed.”
“But he— she— they— Harlequin—”
“I know.” Doctor doesn’t budge. “Calm down.”
“He stole them—”
“You don’t know that.”
“I can smell and see it—”
“That’s enough.” The Doctor’s voice is steady, but a cutting edge creeps in. “You’re sick. You’re emotional. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Pierrot struggles weakly against the Doctor’s grip. He is pathetic, a little touching and frightening all at once.
"You let him have them—" Pierrot wails.
"I didn't let anyone do anything," you say, finding your voice even though you're clearly lying. "I chose to hang out with him. He didn't steal me. I went willingly."
Pierrot lay there, a look hurt and confusion. He looks at you, and what happens in his eyes is not simple—pain, questions, surrender, and then, as he looks at you, a glimmer of acceptance.
"Oh," he says quietly. "Yeah. Oh."
He flops down into the blankets, exhausted. The Doctor releases him a little at a time, wary of sudden movement. I’m going to make you soup, Pierrot murmurs, "I'm going to make you soup, when I'm better. The best soup. Soup so good you'll forget he ever—"
"Pierrot."
"—touched you. Soup that says 'I'm sorry I wasn't there but also I'm better than him.' Soup with meaning."
The Doctor looks at you, his eyes tilting down towards you, and his expression is enough to tell you that this is your life stylel now. You take a breath, a long breath that you didn’t know you were holding.
“I look forward to it,” you say.
Pierrot’s eyes glint, a small, brief flash of life, and he snuggles down into his blankets, a small, satisfied smile playing around his lips.
Pierrot’s eyes sparkle for a brief moment, a small glimmer that chases away the weariness from his face. He settles back into the bed, a small smile of contentment appearing on his lips.
“Nice,” he murmurs to himself. “Nice. Soup. I’ll make soup.”
The doctor moves closer as you leaving, his voice low enough that you can only hear him. “He’s going to be all right.” He pauses, his words measured, as if he’s carefully balancing them in a teacup. “The soup threat is a good sign. He’s processing it.”
“The soup threat?”
“To him, it’s a declaration of war.” Doctor’s mouth twitches at the corners, almost a smile. “Last time he was really mad at Harlequin, he threw a hot pot of soup at him. So when you see it happen, make sure you’re not in the middle of it.”
You stare at him. He stares back at you.
“Okay, yeah, um,” I say, the words turning over in my mind. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll stay out of it.”
“Wise choice, sweeite.”
And you leave Pierrot and his soup scheming and the Doctor and his notes, and you make a point not to think too much about the fact that you’ve just started a war.
At least you enojyed yourself that night~
♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉
iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ
HI AGAINNNN I just realized we are mutuals now literally a week after it happened, which is super cool and awesome 💪
but anyways! Studying for midterms is killing me at the moment, so I figured while I'm on my daily Tumblr doomscrolling algorithm, I'll come by to yap in your inbox again 🫶.
Firstly, LOVE THE COLUMBINA CONTENT OMG!!! It's such a shame not many write for her, even though I understand why— as her character moreso haunts the narrative rather than her being a physical presence. She is such a compelling character with so much writing potential, especially as all the characters seem to have a different view of her.
Onto another topic as well, but if I recall correctly, you are in RE? (I don't remember if it's you or another author, if it's another one this'll get real awkward.. feel free to ignore the rest of this if so LOL )
What do you think of RE9 so far, if you've been able to get into it? Grace's parts of the game are my absolute favorite as I favor the horror side of Resident Evil, and also I'm biased because confession... im actually just not that into Leon, or into shooters that much 😭 The Leon stans would come and find my location for saying my full thoughts on him so I'll leave it there, but I could honestly go on about Grace's character and sections of the game! She's the most realistic MC we've had in an RE game and she's SO intelligient, like aaa I could really go on.
Also I won't spoil it for you just in case you haven't gotten into it, but I found the 2nd half of the game kinda underwhelming after the highs of the new release tempered down. I feel like the game should've been way longer, among other underwhelming plots and character potential 💔
Anyways, yap over! Per usual, be sure youre looking after yourself, staying hydrated, etc :^) 🫶
ayy hi! and yes, i don't remember when but i did follow you because your art is so magnificent. It's so gorgeous. I adore the details in the dark aesthetics, plus, energy levels are matching = MUTUALS !!!
anyway, yess the COLUMBINA CONTENT. i wrote it because i didn't see other writers wrote her as much, so I decided to give her a bit of justice since her character is a bit vague and she's often ignored by the popular circus member characters.
but why?? I know there is a moment in the fandom that everybody was like jealous of her—for being pierrot's first love, or just mixing up the game with the actual classic from the 14th century? regardless and hopefully it was just a misunderstanding.
like Columbina, she literallyyyy and genuinely haunts the narrative more than she's... ghoslty form and that's exactly why she's so compelling. anyway, so glad you're enjoyed it, definitely gave me a little difficulty, again since she didn't have that much information on her!
moving on, which are you stalking me?
I'm not sure if I did mention that I love resident evil, but you're definitely on the point. i was JUST watching my favorite YouTuber—JazzyGuns's gameplay on resident evil because I don't own the PlayStation or Xbox or any PC device. And graphics on the switch is shitty asf.
like ever since I bought mk11 on there mk1 I've been pissed ever since.
but OMG I been into longest Resident Evil for the longest (same goes for Call of Duty) l!! like i grew up on those games, love them deeply, still played them. I haven't finished watching RE9 yet 🥲 i KNOW. i'm like lil behind BUT I'm slowly catching up and I absolutely adore Grace, like she's so well designed.
even tho, Shev Alomar from RE5 is my favorite.
and then my favorite games are Resident Evil 7 and Village/8
anyway back to Grace, first of all, her voice actor did a great job with her, like i seen a couple of people making fun of her stammer, even though she has social anxiety (countless of other things that I will not say because spoilers) and I found a hilarious of her handling the requiem, like mf has a KICK to it 😭
also legit when I saw this, I thought you were asking me to write some Leon smut, I've been thinking about it, ever since someone made that edit of him breaking through a wardrobe and you just see this man's biceps, like I never found him fine, but he aged like salt and pepper, like you can see a little wrinkles, but he still fine asf.
but I haven't been motivated to do it since everyone sees my page "Visual Novel Central" of course, i write whatever my heart content, but I desperately would love to explore serious/cool fandoms on here.
anyway you're safe from leon stans here. i won't sell you out.
thank you for yapping in my inbox this was genuinely so fun to read, like you don't know how fast you caught my attention when it's not visual novel related. also good luck with your midterms as well like...
